


The White Tower and the Winding Stair

by CherryBlossomTide



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Arranged Marriage, F/F, F/M, Imprisonment, Kidnapping, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-04
Updated: 2015-06-04
Packaged: 2018-04-02 20:07:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4072840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CherryBlossomTide/pseuds/CherryBlossomTide
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly reads a lot of fairy tales and she knows very well how this story is supposed to go. The Princess in the Tower is rescued, either by the handsome Prince or the plucky young stable boy, and then they fall in love. What definitely isn’t supposed to happen is that the handsome Prince and the stable boy fall in love with each other, while the Princess is instructed to marry the Prince’s legendarily cold-hearted brother. But life rarely goes Molly’s way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The White Tower and the Winding Stair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [what_alchemy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_alchemy/gifts).



> A huge thank you to my wise, generous and very patient beta **dioscureantwins** . Any remaining mistakes are my own.

Castle Hooper is perhaps not exactly what one would expect for a royal dwelling. The word that springs to mind when one looks at it is _unassuming_ : there is little in the architecture that speaks of artistry or even of imagination – a square enclosure, with thick granite walls atop a modest hill. Inside, the courtyards and inner buildings are laid out with a preference for neatness and practicality over any desire to impress, square and plain being the order of business for buildings, buttresses and one might somewhat unkindly say, faces. Critics of the castle’s lack of style might want to bear one thing in mind, however: Castle Hooper has never once, in the thousand years or so since the first foundation stone was laid by the first Queen, successfully been invaded.

Inside the royal buildings, the modest theme of the castle continues with little to show for itself in the way of frills or frescoes. Once the inner chambers of the court were panelled with wood, and hung with rich tapestries but the current King of Hoop likes the starkness of stone about him, relieved only by the occasional mounted Stag’s head or piece of ceremonial weaponry. He prefers his subjects to be kept in a state of unease in his presence, and out of it, and his taste for interior design unfortunately reflects that fact. But enough of King Magnussen: this is not his story. 

If we step out of the back exit to the royal chambers, through the narrow passages frequented only by servants, we will find the one piece of Hooper architecture that deviates from the theme of prosaic practicality. Here, by the stables and opposite the servant’s quarters, on a small green mound, stands a single white tower.

Unlike the rest of the castle, the tower is built not of granite, but of a pure white stone, some cousin, one would suspect, to marble, but finer in grain. The walls are very thin, barely the width of a sword’s blade, and in places the weather has worn them so thin that they are practically translucent, the shadowy silhouettes of anyone within briefly visible as they pass. Perhaps it is for this reason that ivy has been encouraged to grow thickly up the side of the building, tangling its way up and around it to where it stops, leaves trembling, under the tower’s solitary window.

The Tower is quite a remarkable sight but people in the castle seldom look up at it as they go around their day, and it is never, even in the lowest tones or behind closed doors, mentioned. Well, if you knew King Magnussen you’d understand.

There are a few exceptions to this rule – one of whom we can see now, leaving the servant’s quarters, shoulders hunched and head bent, carrying a basket slung over her elbow. She walks the short distance up the sandy path to the tower door and opens the door slowly and cautiously as if she is afraid that the creak of the lock will draw attention to her. 

Inside, there is a shallow, tightly winding staircase, which the woman, setting her face and balancing her basket, begins to climb. It’s not easy for her: her hip, which she injured in a fall a few years ago, aches in the early morning cold, and her breath comes in short gasps, a flush rising in livid spots on her cheeks – but she does not pause. It is her Lady’s birthday and Mrs Hudson will be damned if she doesn’t get her flask of tea to her before it cools.

The inside of the Tower is constructed a little like the inner part of a sea shell, the staircase becoming steeper, the walls closer and the passages more constricted as one climbs. Mrs Hudson is not considered tall nor is she particularly fat but there are places on the tightly wound staircase where she has to duck her head to avoid the low ceiling, or pull in her elbows and clutch her basket to her chest simply to get through the narrow spaces.

Then, eventually, the staircase ends and Mrs Hudson steps out with a sigh of relief onto a wooden platform, which contains the short ladder up to the trapdoor. Mrs Hudson knocks on the door twice, before getting out her keys carefully, wobbling a little on the narrow wooden slats, opening it. 

“Mrs Hudson!”

Lady Molly is standing rather precariously on tiptoes on a chair that is balanced on top of a desk and holding a telescope to her chest. This may seem an eccentric description of our heroine, but the reasons for her actions are quite logical: Molly has found through various experiments of trial and error that only this particular configuration of furniture will allow her to see out of the tiny window that is set high in the smooth stone wall above her head. Since this little window is the only means by which Molly may observe the world at her feet, and has been for the last 33 years of her life, the importance of being able to see out of it rates somewhat more highly to her than personal dignity. 

Unlike many of her class, Lady Molly is a considerate creature and when she sees her poor old nurse, panting and gasping at the head of the ladder she jumps down from her constructed viewpoint immediately and takes the basket from her hands, guiding her to the room’s only other chair.

“Happy birthday, my dear,” Mrs Hudson says, once she has her breath back. “Do close the trapdoor for me, won’t you?” 

Molly pushes the trapdoor closed, with a brief and wistful glimpse at the staircase – Molly has never been down those stairs, at least not since she was old enough to remember, and they are a matter of very great curiosity for her.

“Let’s have a cup of tea then, shall we?” Mrs Hudson says, and Molly roots through the basket and pulls out the stone flask of tea that is, as Mrs Hudson had sworn to herself it would be, still piping hot. She pours it into cups, and settles herself on the floor at Mrs Hudson’s knee and the two women sit for a moment, quietly breathing in steam and enjoying the peace of the moment. 

“Is your hip still bad?” Molly asks, after a moment. 

“It’s been worse,” says Mrs Hudson, which is true but not really saying a lot, and Molly shifts a little so that her cheek brushes against Mrs Hudson’s slack hand. 

Mrs Hudson isn’t Molly’s only maid, but she is the oldest and dearest of them. In the early days, when Molly was young, Mrs Hudson had been one of two that had waited on her. The other, Lady Bruce, Molly still has nightmares about – but thankfully she had decided caring for the girl was beneath her talents and left. 

For many of the intervening years Mrs Hudson was Molly’s sole attendant, but now that she is older and has her Hip she is sometimes relieved by some of the younger housemaids: there is Janine, who is always chatty and likes to laugh a lot, but who makes Molly feel uneasy because Molly is never quite sure if she is laughing or smiling at the right part of the conversation; and then there is Kate who is very quiet, but when she can be persuaded to talk regales Molly with tales of her previous mistress, the Lady Irene. Molly has gathered from these stories that Lady Irene is a very beautiful and fascinating woman, and that Kate is rather disappointed to be serving Molly now - so that isn’t entirely comfortable either. 

It is only with Mrs Hudson that Molly feels completely at peace, and Molly loves her without any reservation.

“Now,” Mrs Hudson says, once she is fully recovered from her climb and the tea is all drunk. “Take a look in that basket again, dear, and bring out the little cloth wrapped parcel.”

Molly is instantly alert, pulling out the parcel with hands that tremble with eagerness. “Is it - ?”

“Open it, dearie,”

Molly opens the package and her heart jumps with pleasure.

“Oh, Mrs Hudson, _two_ books!”

“Your father the King took quite a bit of persuading,” Mrs Hudson says. If Molly were any good at reading faces she might learn something from the tight angry look that crosses Mrs Hudson’s face whenever she speaks of the King. “But I was sure you would want both of them. And it _is_ an important birthday,”

Molly has a book in each hand and is weighing them: an expression of rapturous happiness on her face. One is labelled the _Encylopedia Anatomica,_ the other _The Grey Book of Fairy Tales_. It is clear to Mrs Hudson that Molly wants to dive straight into one of them, but she can’t make her mind up which to try first.

“Start with the book of fairy tales,” she says. “You can read it aloud to me while I brush your hair. Heaven knows, I have no interest in hearing about people cutting up livers and the like.”

Molly nods, expression intent, and begins turning pages. Mrs Hudson gets to her feet and looks for the end of Molly’s plait. Molly’s hair has not been mentioned until now, but it makes for quite a presence in the room. She has not had it cut since she arrived in the White Tower as a toddler and as a result it falls back from her head and trails onto the floor for several metres, undulating like a vast fat snake around the small room, nestling in piles and doubling back on itself. Mrs Hudson finds the end of the plait underneath the chest of drawers and she begins to pull a brush through the lowest portion of it, gently smoothing the night-time tangles. Brushing Molly’s hair is a task that takes a good two hours but Mrs Hudson enjoys it – she’s very proud of her charge’s glossy thick tresses and the years of devoted effort it has taken her to maintain them.

Molly is reading in a quiet voice and Mrs Hudson doesn’t pay too much attention – she’s not one for stories, really, but she indulges Molly because she knows it gives her more pleasure to share them. After a while however Mrs Hudson notices Molly has paused in her reading, her eyes drifting to stare into the distance.

“Are you all right, dear?” Mrs Hudson says.

“Mrs Hudson,” Molly says, “Do you think I will ever be rescued?”

Mrs Hudson pauses in her brushing for a moment. “What makes you ask that, dear?”

“All the Princesses in the stories... a lot of them get locked up in a Tower when they are a baby, like I did, and they are always rescued but it always seems to be on their sixteenth birthday, or sometimes their eighteenth. I’m thirty-three years old now.”

“Well,” Mrs Hudson says heavily. “Some things just take longer than you think they will.”

“But... do you think maybe I’m not...”

“Not what dear?”

“Not beautiful enough?” Molly says. “The princesses in the story are always very, very beautiful, and that’s why the hero falls in love with them.”

“A discerning hero looks for more than beauty,” Mrs Hudson says severely. Molly’s shoulders drop a little. “But in any case you are lovely to look at. With all that beautiful hair of yours! Anyone would want to rescue you as soon as they see you.”

“But they _can’t_ see me,” Molly points out. “Can they?”

Mrs Hudson has no answer to that. She sighs deeply. She hopes to goodness someone will rescue Molly soon – or what will become of the poor girl?

 

The light is dying when Mrs Hudson finally bids her leave of Molly, the walls of the White Tower flushing pink with sunset. Molly hates the sound of the trapdoor closing and leaving her alone for the night, and sometimes has to curl up at the edge of the room and hug her knees until she calms down. 

Once, when Molly had been naughty as a child, Lady Bruce had told her that she was going to leave Molly alone in the Tower forever and then she’d taken the candle away and locked the door. 

Mrs Hudson had come up the next day and found Molly in what she’d called Quite A State. Lady Bruce had left soon after that, and Mrs Hudson was very careful always to give Molly a candle and a promise that someone would be up to see her early tomorrow but some part of Molly is still terribly afraid that Lady Bruce’s prophesy will prove true and that one day her maids will leave her little Tower room, never to return.

Molly tries to calm herself by watching the shifting pattern of lights that the sunset casts against the wall – there is a particularly weathered spot just under her window through which she can see the small burning circle of the sinking sun, and the outlines of the ivy leaves dancing in the slight breeze. 

And then Molly sees something that makes her breath stop in her chest. 

Under the dancing leaves another shape is silhouetted through the thin stone – wide like a star with five long points spreading out of it. It is a moment before Molly recognises it – that is the shape of a human hand. 

It disappears almost as soon as Molly has recognised it, to be replaced by an indistinct blur of moving shadow – Molly watches it until the point where the stone thickens and she can’t see it any more. She bites her lip, waiting and wondering... and then above her glass shatters. 

Molly screams, covering her face in terror. 

There is a further brief tinkling of glass, the squeak of her desk and a soft thump of something landing on her floor followed by a short huff of breath.

“That hair really is unfeasible.”

Molly opens her eyes, and dares a look towards the presence that is standing in the centre of her little room. The man is tall, taller than anyone Molly, with her limited experience, would ever have imagined anyone to be, broad at the shoulder and narrow at the waist, wearing a handsome purple velveteen doublet and calfskin breeches. His eyes, currently fixed on Molly are a piercing light blue and his skin is almost as pale and smooth as the stone behind him. As Molly watches, he shakes his head, brushing long fingers through his thick black curls and scattering stray fragments of sparking glass.

 _A handsome prince_ Molly’s mind supplies, and her mouth feels strangely dry. For all the years Molly had dreamed about being rescued by a Prince, she’d never got to the point of imagining what she might say to one if they ever actually arrived.

The Prince takes the dilemma off Molly’s hands by speaking first. “Do you have scissors?” he says. His voice is rich and deep and Molly spends a brief moment simply marvelling at the sound of it before the meaning of his words filter through to her.

“W -why do you want scissors?” she says.

“To cut that off,” The Prince gestures dismissively at the plait winding its way around the floor. “Obviously.”

Molly forgets her self-consciousness in a surge of fear and indignation. “You’re not cutting my hair!” 

“How else am I supposed to get you down this tower?”

“I-“ Molly says, but the Prince has already turned away from her, jumping with nimble grace onto the desk. He’s tall enough, Molly notes, not to need the chair to reach the window.

“John!” The Prince calls out of the small window. “I need my sword.”

“You _can’t_ cut off my hair with a sword.” Molly says, but the Prince has apparently stopped paying attention to her. Molly starts gathering up her plait to wind into a spool around her arm, the better to defend it from sword-wielding princes. 

After a few moments another shadow flits past the thin patch of stone and a face appears at the window. The Prince holds out a hand, helping his companion pull himself up and over the window sill. 

The second man lands on the desk with a thump and looks around the room with curiosity. He’s shorter than the Prince, Molly notes, fairer haired and less richly dressed; his clothes are made of a simple brown fustian, his boots worn and flecked with mud. 

When he has finished his survey of the room, the man looks up at the Prince with a slight frown.

“What did you need a sword for?”

The Prince gestures at Molly. “Her _hair_ , John. Oh, for the goddesses’ sake,” he adds, noticing Molly, who has bundled up as much of her hair as she can and is holding it protectively to her chest. 

The man called John looks at Molly, and his eyes take on a softer look.

“You can’t chop off a girl’s hair with a sword.”

“Why can’t I? It’s going to be in the way.”

“Because – because you can’t. Look at her, Sherlock, she’s clearly terrified.”

“I imagine she’ll be even more so once the ladder snaps underneath her and we all fall to our certain deaths. I made my calculations very carefully, John, they include the weight of myself and a normal sized woman. They do not account for a giant ball of hair.”

“It can’t weigh that much.”

“I assure you, it does. And even if it did not, how am I supposed to climb with that monstrosity swinging around the place?”

“Well,” says John, folding his arms. “It’s a pity one of us isn’t a genius with a knack for figuring this sort of problem out.”

The Prince’s bottom lip protrudes. “I can’t possibly.”

“I bet you can,” John says. “I’d put money on it.” He takes a small step closer to the Prince and now he’s smiling. “Really quite a lot of money.”

The Prince doesn’t smile but his eyes crinkle ever so slightly in a way that makes Molly suspect he’d like to.

He goes back over to the window to look out of it first; then starts examining the window frame. He then jumps down, and paces the room, pale eyes darting everywhere. Molly, feeling her hair is no longer in direct danger, relaxes slightly.

“Aha!” Sherlock says, picking up a poker from beside the fireplace. “This will do very nicely.”

“Do for what?” John asks, coming over to look at it curiously. 

“Isn’t it obvious? Hand me that sword.” 

“Why do you need the sword?” John asks, but he hands it to the Prince automatically. The prince holds the blade of the sword flat against the poker. “Take this, John. Press down hard, exactly as I am doing.”

John obeys and the Prince takes the poker in both hands. Molly watches in amazement as the Prince pulls, making the poker bend under his hand so that it stands up at a sharp angle. The Prince stops, panting and John stares up at him in awe.

“I did not know you could bend a poker with your bare hands.”

“Again,” says the Prince and shifts the sword and again begins bending the poker. He repeats the action until the poker is a most mysterious shape… a sharp half a square shape at one end, and curved into a loop at the other. The Prince then darts up to the window. He slots the poker over the protruding inner lintel of the window sill – it fits perfectly, the curved end of it protruding out into the empty air.

“Ohhh,” says John. “Oh, that’s clever.”

“You see?” The Prince says and he really is smiling now. “It will bear the weight so that we don’t have to, and keep her hair out of the way.”

“Will it hold?” John asks. The Prince pushes down on the protruding half of the poker hard – it doesn’t budge.

“Brilliant,” says John. “Really brilliant.”

“Princess,” The Prince turns to Molly. “If you could come over here.”

 

“You’ll have to get on my back,” the Prince says, in a careless tone, turning his back to her as Molly stands wobbling on the armchair.

Molly hesitates. “Couldn’t I climb down the ladder by myself?”

“I don’t know, could you?” 

Molly, on tiptoe, looks out of the window at the steep drop down against which a very fragile looking wooden ladder stands and for a moment her knees feel week.

“I thought so,” the Prince says, and indicates again for her to get on his back. Awkwardly Molly approaches, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and then, at an impatient tap on the thigh from the Prince, her legs around his waist. He stands, lifting her with him and making her stomach feel like water for a moment. 

“Hold on tight,” The Prince says shortly. “And try not to breathe so much, you’re tickling the back of my neck.”

She squeezes her eyes tight shut and tries not to breathe as she feels the Prince move, the muscles on his back shifting against her chest.

“I’ll give you a leg up,” says John and Molly feels the motion of being lifted upwards. When she opens her eyes they are standing on the ladder on the outside of the tower and the Prince is looping the long rope of Molly’s braid over the metal hook he’d made. He’s right, Molly notes – the weight of the hair that usually pulls at the back of Molly’s head is instantly eased, apparently taken by the refashioned poker.

John’s face appears at the window, and Molly sees his expression, rumpled into lines and tight around the eyes.

“Be careful.”

“Keep an eye on the hair,” The Prince says shortly. He begins to climb down. The hair is moving slowly as they descend, sliding over the metal hook, John carefully keeping one hand on it to make sure it doesn’t slip through too quickly or get caught on the end. The Prince’s curls brush Molly’s face, his sharp shoulder blades pressing against her chest. Once, she glances down at the dizzyingly long drop beneath them and lets out an involuntary squeak.

“Don’t,” the Prince says curtly and Molly decides to close her eyes again. The climb seems to take forever, and Molly tries to focus on the pressure of the Prince’s back against her chest and the even in-and-out of his breath rather than what will happen if he makes a misstep.

Eventually the Prince makes a small jump and Molly’s feet touch the ground. 

“You can let go of me now,” he says. 

Molly opens her eyes, reluctantly relinquishing her grip on the Prince, who steps away with a sigh of evident relief, nodding upwards at John. A moment later Molly’s braid is falling down the tower toward them and Sherlock catches the end of it in his hands. 

“Do something with this,” he says, giving it to her and moves away, watching the ladder intently as John climbs down.

Molly looks at the ground beneath her feet. The earth is soft, crumbling as she digs the toe of her shoe into it. The grass slopes away, not the green blur that Molly had always imagined but a twitching fluttering mass of small blades piercing through the ground. From down here, the servant’s quarters, which had always seemed like dollhouses from above, loom over her. The ivy leaves hiss in the slight breeze.

“All right?” John says, stepping down off the ladder onto the ground beside them.

“Fine.” The Prince’s eyes are darting from side to side. “We’d better get out of here.”

“I agree,” says John and gently places a hand on Molly’s arm. “Are you ready, Your Highness?”

 

The Prince and John lead Molly across the courtyard and around the back of the stables where a pair of horses are tied. Molly looks around her. She has, of course, always known that there was more to the world than what she could see out of her little window: that the front of the stable building that she could see from her tower must have a back. It was another thing, however, to actually see it. It makes Molly feel very strange.

“You’ll ride with me,” John says, steering Molly towards the smaller grey coloured horse

Molly looks at the horse, and it looks sideways at her with a rolling definitely-not-human eye, and stamps its large, very heavy-looking hoof.

“Umm,” Molly says.

“Don’t worry,” John says. “Billy is a very gentle creature.”

“We don’t have time for this,” the Prince snaps, and picks Molly up, lifting her bodily onto the horse. Molly lets out a small gasp as she finds herself seated sideways on the broad back of the horse, which shifts under her and blows out its breath through its nose in a snort. John quickly gathers her hair, rolling it up and placing it in her arms, and slinging the end of it over the horse’s back. Then he puts his foot in the stirrup and slings himself up and onto the horse behind her, one warm arm settling gently but firmly around her waist, the other picking up the reins.

The Prince, meanwhile, has gracefully mounted the black horse beside them, and with a nod to John, they flick the reins in unison. Both horses move forward.

Molly bites her lip, frightened by the way the ground rushes away into a blur at her feet, and the air speeds into a sharp cold wind and buffets her face. She squeezes her eyes shut and buries her face in her armful of hair, chest tight, eyes stinging with panic.

“All right,” John says, in soothing tones. “We aren’t going far and he’s a good horse, a very good boy. See that there? We’re passing the watchtower now. The gate has been left open, that’s no coincidence, believe me. Sherlock made a sleeping potion to give the guards. He’s clever like that. They’ll be fine, of course, don’t worry – maybe wake up with a headache in the morning, nothing more than they’ll be used to from a night of drinking, I’ll wager. And there’s the river. Wishwater. We’re going to cross at the ford, hopefully that will put the dogs off the trail.”

The warm steady tone of John’s voice in Molly’s ear has made her feel a little more relaxed and breathing is coming more easily now. She opens her eyes to see more water than she’d ever seen in her life. She has heard of rivers, of course, but never seen one. The way it funnels and threads over its rocky bed and reflects in flashes the silver moon rising in the sky above them is rather fascinating. Molly thinks if she had the chance she could watch it for a long time.

They turn once they have crossed the river and travel along its rocky shore for some time, the horses’ hooves clattering on stone, before turning right to cross dark fields full of waving silver tinted grass and then up a hill and into a tangle of trees.

“Our camp is up in the forest,” John says. “We’ve left most of our gear up there along with the wagon. Don’t worry, you’ll be comfortable.”

The Prince pulls closer to them, glaring at John.

“What are you muttering about?” he asks him.

“Just making sure her Highness is informed.” John says, smiling up at him. The Prince makes a suspicious sound and pulls ahead again. The horses pick their way more slowly through the trees until they reach a small clearing, with a narrow path leading away from it. In the centre stands a covered wagon next to a charcoal stained patch that Molly identifies as the remains of a fire. John pulls at the reins to halt the horse and jumps down, tying the horse to a tree before helping Molly off it.

“Here we are, safe and sound. You’ll sleep in the wagon, of course, Sherlock and I can make do out here. Are you hungry? We’ve got bread and cheese, and I’ll get a fire going.”

Molly casts a glance at the Prince who has walked off to the far side of the clearing and is peering into the trees. He looks utterly uninterested in Molly and what she is doing and Molly can’t help wishing he’d pay a bit more attention.

“All… all right,”

John shows Molly to the wagon, pulling back the thick tarpaulin that covers it at one corner. He reaches in and takes out an oil lamp, which he lights before helping Molly inside. In the warm and flickering lamplight Molly sees a small straw pallet, liberally heaped with blankets and pillows, a jumble of rope, various metal instruments and a basket which John opens, taking out a loaf of bread and a piece of cheese which he places on a little wooden plate along with a knife.

“A bit rough and ready, I’m afraid!” he says cheerfully. 

“Oh, books!” Molly says, as the lamplight gleams off a small pile on them stacked on the floor by the bed.

“They’re Sherlock’s,” says John. “All quite heavy going, they might not be the sort of thing you’d….”

“The _Encyclopedia Anatomica!_ ” Molly cries out. “I have the same copy!”

“…Or maybe it is,” John says, looking amused. “Here, your dinner.”

Molly sits on the straw pallet and takes the plate from him. She takes a bite of the bread. It’s dry and crumbles in her mouth. Even the cheese is hard and has an unfamiliar taste. John takes another piece of bread out and wraps it up in cloth.

“Will the Prince be eating too?” Molly blurts out.

John looks at her blankly for a moment. “Prince? Oh – Sherlock. He isn’t a Prince.”

“Isn’t he?”

“He’s a knight,” John smiles at her. “And your humble servant. He’s… a little sharp in his manners, Your Highness. I hope you won’t hold it against him.”

“Oh no. Not at all,” Molly says. “Are you a knight too?”

“No.” John says. “I’m, well, no one really. Usually I tend the stables in Lord Holmes’ estate but sometimes my Lord is gracious enough to allow me to ride out with Sir Sherlock.”

Molly frowns. When she was twelve years old Mrs Hudson had brought her a book on etiquette, which proved to be one of the most boring books in Molly’s collection but it was a book all the same and so Molly had read it over twenty times. 

According to it, there were strict rules about how a Knight of the Realm ought to interact with an untitled servant – for example, servants should never address a Knight by his first name and weren’t strictly supposed to make eye contact until they had received express permission. From what she’d seen of Sir Sherlock and John they weren’t following the rules at all.

“You don’t speak to each other with the correct etiquette for a noble and a servant,” Molly says, and the smile slips off John’s face to be replaced with another look, rather like the one he’d had when he’d watched Molly and the Pr- Sir Sherlock shinning down that ladder – tight at the eyes and clenched at the jaw.

“No,” he says. “You must forgive me. Sir Sherlock is a permissive master and I’m afraid I sometimes forget my place. I hope we have not offended you. “

“Oh no,” Molly says. “Etiquette is boring anyway.”

“Sir Sherlock is of the same opinion,” John says. “Nevertheless, you are right to remind me of it. Excuse me.”

John bows and leaves the wagon, leaving Molly alone and feeling rather confused. She has a notion that she has caused the kindly servant pain, but is not sure how. She takes another couple of bites of her bread before deciding she is not hungry at all and tries to distract herself by reading instead but the day has taken its toll; leaving her muscles aching, and her eyelids heavy and closing of their own accord. She gets up and lifts the canvas to look out. 

John has lit a fire, the flames leaping up merrily and Sir Sherlock has seated himself, long legs folded, beside it. The firelight makes his pale skin glow and his eyes flash, as he looks up at John. They are clearly sharing a joke because Sir Sherlock tips his head back, eyes crinkling as he lets out a low laugh. He looks very different when he’s smiling.

“Good night,” Molly says quietly, but she isn’t sure they hear her. She lets the canvas drop and undresses, laying out the blankets so that she can bury herself in their warmth.

Molly can smell the mattress, the sweetness of the hay and some thick oily scent that seems to belong to the wagon. Suddenly, she thinks of Mrs Hudson, of how she will climb the Tower steps to find an empty room tomorrow. Molly feels a lump form in her throat. She hasn’t even had a chance to say goodbye to her. 

But, she reminds herself, she has been rescued. Isn’t that what she always wanted? 

Admittedly it isn’t _quite_ what she had expected. In the stories there is never much detail about what happens directly after the heroine is rescued. They usually skip straight to the wedding, and the rescuer being awarded half the Kingdom for his efforts. She wonders which one of the men who rescued her she will be marrying – in the stories it’s usually either a Handsome Prince or a poor young adventurer like John, but never both together. And neither has said anything about wanting to marry her. Pondering on this Molly falls asleep.

 

When Molly wakes it is with a start and a rush of panic at the unfamiliar darkness. She stumbles to her feet, knocking over the piles of books and almost falling into the canvas cover of the wagon. The sound of a throat being cleared close by and a gentle “Your Highness, are you all right?” brings the memories flooding back.

“Yes,” she says, and carefully pulls the canvas covering aside at one end to peer out. The clearing looks grey in the early morning light, the ground thick with dew but the fire is lit, leaping pale and yellow in the damp air. John is sitting beside it, turning a spit with some unidentified pieces of meat on it.

“Please, come and warm yourself,” says John, jumping up and offering her his hand. Molly climbs down and takes a seat beside the fire. She realises with a blush that she is still in her petticoats but John says nothing about it, only walking off to bring her a thick cloak, which she drapes around herself and then busying himself with the fire.

“Where is Sir Sherlock?”

“Hunting,” John says. “We’ve a long journey ahead and we’ll need more than bread to keep our spirits up.”

Molly considers this. “Where are we going?”

“Castle Holmes,” A deep voice speaks out from behind them, making them both start. Sir Sherlock enters the clearing, carrying a pair of rabbits over one shoulder. John rushes forward to take them from him with a small bow. 

“Sir.”

“Your castle?” Molly guesses.

“My brother’s. Or, perhaps I ought to say, your fiancé’s.”

“My what?” 

Sir Sherlock raises one eyebrow and walks over to the fire, slinging himself down beside it.

“I’m afraid we did not rescue you for purely selfless motives. My elder brother Mycroft has taken it into his head to make you his bride; John and I are but the mere vessels of His Great Will.” 

There’s an odd, sarcastic quirk to Sir Sherlock’s mouth as he says these words. Molly considers, her heart pounding with the new knowledge. She hadn’t been sure she wanted to marry either of the men who had rescued her, but it felt rather wrong to be so dismissively told that instead she was to be betrothed to a stranger.

“If he wants to marry me, why didn’t he rescue me himself?” 

Sir Sherlock’s face crumples into a mirthless sort of smile. “A good question. I suggest you ask him when you see him.”

John clears his throat. Sir Sherlock sighs.

“My brother is an immensely important and busy man, without whose watchful eye the Holmes estate – nay perhaps even the entire country would most likely fall into difficulties! He cannot be expected to undertake such exertions himself. Besides, John and I are better at climbing ladders.”

“But,” says Molly. “If he truly loves me...”

Sir Sherlock turns to look at her. “I’d get that idea out of your head right away. My brother,” he says. “Is incapable of love. You merely represent an expedient political opportunity to rid the throne of an enemy and gain it for himself.”

“ _Sherlock_ ,” John glares up at him, apparently having given up on even the appearance of disinterest.

Sir Sherlock raises his eyebrows. “Isn’t it kinder for her to know the truth?”

“Not when she doesn’t have a choice.”

“I don’t have a choice?” Molly asks.

Both men turn to look at her, expressions grave.

“Do you want to go back to your Tower?” Sir Sherlock asks her.

Molly thinks briefly of Mrs Hudson’s kindly face. And then she thinks of the rushing river, the trembling leafy canopy of the wood above her, of all the things she hasn’t seen yet. 

“No….”

“Believe me, there are a lot of people who would like to put you back there, and to have any chance of resisting them you need an army. Do you happen to have one of those up your sleeve?”

“No.”

“My brother does. So there you are – match made in heaven.” 

John stands, picking the roasted meat off the skewers and putting it onto plates. He hands one to Molly, together with a knife. She stares at the meat, blackened by the flame and dripping with grease. She cuts off a piece with her knife and takes one doubtful bite -- it is surprisingly tasty, smoke flavoured by the fire.

They eat in silence for a while, or at least, Molly and John do. Sir Sherlock seems preoccupied with dissecting his meal but doesn’t actually put any of it in his mouth.

“If your brother has an army, then why does he need me?” Molly asks, at last, putting down her plate and wishing she had something to wipe her greasy fingers on.

Sir Sherlock waves a careless hand. “Legitimacy. You are the rightful heir to the throne. The Holmes’ are noble but they have not a jot of royal blood in them.”

“Because my father is the King?”

Sir Sherlock gives her a long look with those piercing eyes of his. “No one’s told you anything, have they?”

This strikes Molly as a very odd question – in the course of her life she’s been told a great number of things, mostly by Mrs Hudson or occasionally Janine – but she’s sure Sir Sherlock must mean something more specific and so says nothing.

“Charles Augustus Magnussen is not your father. He and your mother were married three months before her death, though some would question the legitimacy of that union. There are rumours that he threatened her into it. What is quite certain is that he has no true claim to the throne – by right of blood it should be yours. Fortunately for him you were barely past infanthood when your mother died and he could seize the throne and claim to be ruling as your protector.”

“And that’s why he shut me up in the Tower?”

“Out of sight, out of mind,” Sir Sherlock says. “Luckily some of us have longer memories.”

Molly is quiet. “I always thought there must be some sort of curse,” she says. “In the stories….”

“I can tell by your left thumb and the crease of your eyelids that you spend a great deal of time reading,” Sir Sherlock says. Molly looks in confusion at her hands. “I must caution you that books are like people – invaluable as they may be as a source of information, frequently, they lie.”

Abruptly he leaps to his feet. “Are we ready to go, John?”

“Just give me a minute to get these things packed, sir.”

“Is there somewhere I can wash?” Molly asks. Looking down she realises that her hair has not fared well during this forest excursion – the plait is unravelling and appears to have picked up a great deal of dirt from being dragged along the forest floor, not to mention leaves and bits of twig.

Sir Sherlock makes a growling noise in the back of his throat, and John gives him a quelling look.

“Of course, Your Highness, if you’ll follow me.”

Molly follows John out of the clearing, and along a very narrow path up towards a cave, out of which a narrow stream of water pours into a small dark pool. 

“I’ll leave you here, but I’ll be within earshot,” John says. “Call me if you get into any difficulties.”

Molly waits until John has disappeared again through the trees before divesting herself of her clothes and stepping into the pool. The chill of the water makes her gasp and so she washes quickly, splashing herself and then untying her hair to wash it and comb it through with her fingers. It seems to get the worst of the dirt out and it’s rather too cold for Molly to want to do any better. Unfortunately, plaiting her hair herself proves more difficult than she’d thought and by the time she’s given up and dragged the wet and heavy hair back along the path to the camp it’s quite as dirty as it was to start with, with the minor alteration that the dirt has turned to mud.

“Let me help you,” John says kindly, as he observes her bedraggled state. “I used to help my sister with her hair all the time.”

“For the goddesses’ sake,” Sir Sherlock says, irritably, sitting cross-legged atop the now fully packed wagon. “Are we ever going to leave?”

“Five minutes,” says John, and deftly plaits Molly’s hair into a long tight (though still somewhat muddy) rope. “If you sit inside the wagon,” he tells her. “We don’t want to draw undue attention to you.”

Molly gets in and John goes to the front, and the wagon rumbles into life. Molly pulls back the canvas so she can watch the world as they pass it – the path is narrow and the trees close around them. Molly watches with fascination the glimpses of life in the forest – all the different sorts of trees, some small and slender, some upright and thick trunked, others still, drooping and gnarled. She catches glimpses of glades and clearings, areas of dense brush, bushes hung with berries and small creatures grubbing through the undergrowth, the occasional fleet-footed deer fleeing the sound of the wagon. She has a book on her lap but does not read, so absorbed is she in watching the world as she passes. _Her_ world, she reminds herself. Her Kingdom.

 

They stop briefly in the early afternoon to stretch their legs and John hands Molly a piece of bread moistened with dripping from their earlier meal. Sir Sherlock refuses the food but paces a little on the road, glancing around him.

“We should be crossing the border into Baskerville lands soon,” Sir Sherlock remarks.

“We’d best be careful then,” John says. “Lestrade told me there were rumours of Morstanites in that area.”

Sir Sherlock’s face seems to sharpen with interest. “ _Re_ ally?”

“No,” says John shortly, then glances at Molly with an apologetic look. “I mean – excuse me, sir, but we have our mission already and even if we didn’t that – that is a very, very bad idea.”

Sir Sherlock starts to pout again.

“What are Morstanites?” asks Molly, glancing between the two men.

“Bandits,” says John shortly.

“Very accomplished bandits,” Sir Sherlock says. “Did you know last year they managed to kidnap Sir Henry and hold him to ransom? And that man is so paranoid he never travels anywhere without half an army at his back. I’d _love_ to know how they did it.”

“I’m sure there are ways to find out,” says John. “ _Without_ deliberately getting yourself kidnapped.”

“You’d rescue me.”

“Don’t count on it.” John turns to Molly with a serious look in his eyes. “It might be best for you to keep the canvas closed for a while, just in case.”

“Isn’t the story that they only kidnap men,” Sir Sherlock says. “And donate the proceeds to women in distress? She’ll be in less danger than us, most likely.”

John makes a sceptical noise. “That’s the story. Even if it is true, even the high-minded principles of bandits tend to vanish when faced with the heir to the throne,” he says dryly.

“I’ll keep the canvas closed,” Molly promises, with some reluctance.

They eat for a while in silence. Molly turns to Sir Sherlock.

“Sir Sherlock—” 

“Yes?”

“You said King Magnussen was not my true father…”

“Nor, technically speaking, a King.”

“Then who was my father?”

“No one knows,” says Sir Sherlock. 

“But I thought – if my father was not a King, then how am I a Queen?”

Sir Sherlock shoots her a scandalised look. “Have you never read a history of Hoop?”

Molly casts her mind back over the small library of books that had been under her possession. “No, I never had one.”

“As a more civilised country than most, Hoop recognises the only logical route of royal succession – from mother to daughter. Only the female bloodline can remain provably uncompromised for obvious reasons, thus avoiding the inevitable finger pointing and infighting of male-based lineages. Who fathers the Queen’s children is not relevant.”

“As long as he is of noble birth,” John adds. He says it very mildly, but there is something significant in the silence that follows this remark, and in the dark look immediately passes over Sir Sherlock’s face. He gets to his feet immediately, and begins to inspect the horses. 

“When the two of you are quite ready,” he bites out in acid tones.

 

The canvass covering is closed for the rest of the afternoon, so Molly lights a lamp and reads. Sir Sherlock’s book collection proves most intriguing – not only does it sport several books on the anatomy of men and animals but it also has detailed books on the plant life of Hoop and their various uses, including a thick tome on different types of poison.

When they finally stop for the night they are on an open moor, a wide sea of purple heather leading up to the shadow of a great stone crag set on a small hill under which they set up their camp.

“No Morstanites,” Sir Sherlock says.

“I guess we just don’t look kidnap-able enough,” John says. “We’ve made good progress. We should cross into Holmes lands tomorrow.”

Sir Sherlock doesn’t look pleased by this news at all, his brows drawing together and his lower lip protruding again. John sighs and looks down at his feet. 

“I’ll go see if I can cook us something, shall I?”

 

The evening passes quietly. John roasts the pair of rabbits that Sherlock had caught that morning and they eat them with some of the herbs he’s gathered. Neither Sir Sherlock nor John talks much, though Molly sees John glancing up at Sir Sherlock frequently, eyes brightened with worry. Sir Sherlock himself seems to be in a black mood, wrapped in his cloak and staring angrily into the flames. Molly finds her thoughts wandering to her destination and the man she is supposed to marry. Lord Holmes. Will he look like Sir Sherlock, or act like him? Molly is uncertain whether she would prefer that or not. John’s words seem to ring in her ears.

_Not when she doesn’t have a choice._

Molly retires to the wagon and sleeps early.

 

When she wakes, she finds it very quiet. She quickly pulls on the cloak John had given her the previous day and steps out of the wagon to find their camp apparently deserted, no sign of John or Sir Sherlock to be seen. The fire is still burning, Molly notes, so they can’t have been gone long, and their cloaks and sleeping rolls are still left on the ground and not packed away as they had been the previous morning. 

“Hello?” she calls. “John, Sir Sherlock?” 

There is no answer. Suddenly she remembers the story of the previous day, of bandits roaming these lands and preying on men. What if something has happened to them? She finds a knife in the pile of dirty cutlery by the fire and sets out to look for them.

There is no sign of them in the moorlands sweeping down from the crag but Molly can see a faint trail pushed through the heather leading round the back of it, where someone or something has clearly walked recently. She follows it, treading as quietly as she can. As she rounds the side of the crag she hears something caught on the breeze – a low rumble of voices. Speeding up, she turns the corner, stepping out onto the great stone shelf under the looming wall of the crag.

To her relief, she sees both men are there, alone and unharmed. John is standing with his back to the wall of stone and Sir Sherlock in front of him, head bent, speaking in a low voice. As Molly watches, John’s expression changes, to a look she’s never observed on his face before, full of a despairing sort of intensity that makes her heart beat oddly. He lifts a hand to cup Sir Sherlock’s jaw and Sir Sherlock makes on odd sort of noise, like an aborted moan, and bends his head to press his mouth against John’s.

Molly has seen a picture of a kiss before – in one of her books of fairy tales, an account of a Knight who had saved a Princess from a dragon. Molly had looked at that illustration a great deal, memorising the way the Princess’ head tipped back, just like John’s, eyes closed in a sort of rapturous concentration, the way the Prince had held her waist, just as Sir Sherlock is holding John, as though unable to get quite as close to him as he wanted. 

Molly has a sudden, strong sensation that she ought not to be here, witnessing this very private act. She takes a step backwards but her foot catches on her plait and she stumbles, falling backwards and dropping the knife, which falls with a clatter onto the ground beside her.

The two men break apart immediately, and Molly sees John’s expression, eyes wide with horror, and then looks at Sir Sherlock, whose face seems to be darkening with anger. 

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I was just – I wondered where you’d... I’ll just go, shall I?” And she picks herself up and flees back to the camp.

 

John trudges back to the camp a little while later, carrying a bundle of firewood that he slings into the back of the wagon. He glances towards Molly, who sits bundled up miserably in her cloak by the fire, sighs and walks over to her.

“I hope you were not hurt, Your Highness?”

“Oh, no,” Molly says. “I landed on my hair mostly.”

“I’m glad,” John says, and hesitates. “What you saw…”

“I didn’t mean to,” says Molly. “I was just – there was no one here and I thought maybe something had happened to you both.”

“That’s very reasonable,” says John. “We shouldn’t have left you alone.” He looks down. “Your Highness, I have to ask of you that you will not mention what – what you just saw to anyone. Sir Sherlock could get in a very great deal of trouble if it was ever found out… if anyone realised the closeness of our – our friendship.”

“Because of etiquette?”

“Because it is against the law of the land,” says John heavily. “And a man of Sir Sherlock’s position cannot be seen to disobey it.”

Molly thinks about this. In the stories, lovers were always united in the end, the rules bent or cast aside for them. Wasn’t that how it was supposed to be?

“Do you love him?”

John looks up at her and blinks twice. “Very much,” John says eventually. “But I am not his equal. And we are both men. Such things are doubly forbidden.”

“That doesn’t seem fair,” Molly says.

“Few things are,” John says. They sit in silence for a moment. A bird starts singing somewhere near, a cascade of sound that suddenly soars, spilling out of the sky above them.

“I won’t tell anyone,” Molly promises. “Though it isn’t as if I have anyone to tell, anyway.”

“Believe me,” John says, with a smile. “When we get to Castle Holmes you will have plenty of people wishing to be your friend.”

“There will be none so dear to me as the men who rescued me.” Molly says. “I won’t break faith with you.”

John’s eyes crinkle at the corners and he smiles at her.

“There is a spring a little further down the hill,” he says. “I can take you there if you want to wash.”

 

As they traipse down the hill through the heather together Molly’s mind returns to Sir Sherlock and John. It makes her heart ache a little as she remembers the softness of John’s look when he spoke of his love for Sir Sherlock, the fervour with which they had kissed. Molly had started to wonder if the love spoken about in her books had been another half-truth, of the sort Sir Sherlock had warned her against, but the evidence now is before her. 

Would anyone ever love her like that?

“Is Lord Mycroft truly as cold-hearted as Sir Sherlock says?” Molly asks aloud.

John’s head is bent, eyes fixed on the heather. “Well, it isn’t my place to say.”

“But you must know him a little. What is he like?”

John looks thoughtfully at the sky. “I have served the Holmes estate many years,” he says. “In that time I have never seen him act in a way that could be considered cruel or unjust. He administers his lands well, and his people never go hungry, or suffer for want of what he could provide. But – Sir Sherlock is right to say, he does not strike me as a man of emotion. I can’t imagine him being given much to romance.” He pauses for a moment. “But many men change after they marry.”

“I see,” says Molly, rather unhappily. They have reached the spring, water bubbling up from the ground at their feet. 

“I will leave you,” John says. “Call me, if you need any help.”

 

Sir Sherlock is sitting in his place at the front of the wagon when Molly returns to the camp, face set, and he does not respond when she wishes him good morning. Molly frowns at him for a moment and then climbs into the back of the wagon.

“You can leave the canvas open, if you like,” John says. “We’ll be cutting across the corner of Adler lands and then into Holmes territory. I doubt anyone would dare to cause us trouble there.”

Molly does as she is told. The moors give way to lush green meadows, fields of lavender and hedges tangled with roses. Molly supposes these are Adler lands – she knows from her book _The Natural Resources of Hoop_ that the Adler region is famous for the production of fine perfumes. In the distance the misty blue impression of mountains shimmers against the sky. After a while the road turns and they enter a forest, different from the first they travelled through, the trees darker and bristling, with a heavy, sweet smell. From Sir Sherlock’s book Molly identifies pine trees.

“Why don’t we let the Princess sit up front, now that we are almost there?” John asks Sir Sherlock when they stop for a brief lunch. Sir Sherlock merely shrugs and gets into the back of the wagon, not looking at either of them.

Molly’s pleasure at being at the front of the wagon, able to see for miles around her is somewhat blunted by John’s quietness and drooping shoulders, the palpable absence of Sir Sherlock. She feels as though she has accidentally spoiled both men’s happiness and is not quite sure how to put any of it right.

She forgets about that however as the wagon rounds a corner and Castle Holmes looms into view. Set on a clifftop, with waves crashing dramatically at its feet, its turrets soar in jagged peaks against the rolling sky. Elaborately carved gargoyles grimace down at Molly from the buttresses as they approach. Molly turns and cranes to look at the great churning mass of blue water at the feet of the cliff.

“Is that really the sea?”

“It is.”

“Oh, how wonderful,” Molly says. She had had a painting of the sea in her little room in the Tower and had often liked to look at it but now she can see it was nothing like as impressive as the real thing.

John smiles at her enthusiasm, but the weary look hasn’t vanished from his eyes.

The drawbridge lowers with a great screech of the hinge and they enter the courtyard. A line of servants, dressed all in soft grey and purple livery, stand waiting in the yard to greet them, led by a grey-haired, rather handsome man in black.

“Your Highness,” he bows deeply to Molly.

“Lestrade,” Sir Sherlock has walked up beside Molly. “Is my brother not in attendance?”

“He was called away,” says Lestrade, with a quick apologetic look at Molly. “Important business to attend to in the North.”

“Start as you mean to go on,” Sir Sherlock says, rather nastily.

One of the horses stamps its hoof, and beside Molly John twitches. 

“Sir,” he says quietly.”Should I—?”

Sir Sherlock turns to look at him, and Molly wants to shiver at how utterly blank and cold his expression suddenly is.

“Yes, Watson, thank you for your service. You may attend to the horses now. Lestrade, see to the needs of our guest.” 

Sir Sherlock turns his back on them and strides away into the building.

Lestrade beckons to a woman standing at the end of the line, who steps forward with a quick smile and a deep curtsey.

“This is Lady Donovan, Lord Mycroft’s ward. She’ll be attending to your needs while you are here. If you follow me, I’ll lead you to your rooms and perhaps you can, uh, refresh yourself.”

Molly sees Lestrade’s eye dart to her plait, which is admittedly rather frayed and dusty after the day’s travel.

The room Lestrade shows her to is sumptuous – the walls hung with silken tapestries, a large dresser with a burnished bronze mirror, several ornately carved wardrobes, thick soft sheepskin rugs, the sofa and bed curtains both of a sea-green silk that contrast beautifully with the grey stone walls. A fire leaps merrily in the grate.

“I hope it pleases Your Highness,” Lestrade says, dark eyes fixed anxiously on her.

“It’s lovely, thank you,” Molly says.

Lestrade bows. “I’ll have food sent up to you.”

He leaves Molly and Lady Donovan alone. Molly moves to the window, which has a view of the front gate and beyond it the road that slopes down into the forest.

“Do you know when the Lord Mycroft will return?”

“I believe he mentioned to Lestrade he would be back tomorrow.”

“I see,” Molly says.

“Would Your Highness like me to prepare you a bath?” Lady Donovan asks, and Molly nods.

“That sounds wonderful.”

Lady Donovan has just left to fetch water when there is a tap on Molly’s door. She opens it to see Sir Sherlock, his hair in somewhat more disarray than usual and a heavy scowl on his face.

“Your Highness, may I be allowed an audience with you?” he asks, in rather clipped tones.

“Of – of course,” Molly says, opening the door wider to let him in. “Is something wrong?” 

Sir Sherlock paces to the window, then turns sharply and paces to the fireplace and then back again. Molly bites her lip.

“I suppose John has spoken to you, about this morning?”

“Yes, he asked me not to say anything. He was worried you would be in trouble if I did.”

“I expect he failed to mention what the consequences to himself would be were our secret discovered?”

“I – uh…”

“Of course not. He wouldn’t want to worry you, the stupid little – The penalty for a nobleman discovered in an illicit relationship with another man is censure, perhaps, at worst, exile. The punishment for the common man is death.”

Molly blinks. Sir Sherlock moves to tower above her, slightly reddened eyes boring into hers.

“If any harm comes to John because of you, I will make sure you suffer for it. _Truly_ suffer. If a hair on his head is damaged I will personally see that you lose…” Sherlock glances at her plait. “ _All_ of your hairs. I don’t care who you are. Do you understand me?”

Molly stares at him for a moment. “Yes.”

“Very well.” Sir Sherlock turns on his heel, as if to leave.

Molly’s spine straightens. “Wait a moment, Sir Sherlock.”

He turns to look at her. She takes a step towards him, raising her chin so that she can look him directly in the eyes.

“John asked me not to mention what I saw with courtesy, as one friend to another, and it was as a friend that I regarded you both. The way you have spoken to me, with threats is… is ungentlemanly and… and…” Molly struggles to think of the word. “Unfriendly. I do not think I have deserved it.”

Sir Sherlock blinks.

“Tha- that’s all I had to say.” Molly says. “You can go now.”

Sir Sherlock stares at her for a few more moments, before turning and quietly leaving the room.

Molly sits on the shiny silk sofa, with a sudden burning at the back of her throat. Somehow, with all the things she’d been through, she’d come to rather like Sir Sherlock and John, and she'd imagined that they liked her and now… and now.

The door bangs open and Lady Donovan arrives carrying a pail of hot water.

“Ooops,” she says, and then catches sight of Molly’s face.

“Your Highness, what’s wrong?”

“I just… Sir Sherlock...”

Lady Donovan scowls. “Don’t tell me. That man is a brute.” She puts down her pail and comes to sit beside her. “You mustn’t listen to him, Your Highness.”

“I know, it’s just... I thought we were friends.”

“He doesn’t have any friends,” says Lady Donovan. “For good reasons, believe me. I grew up with him.” A smile curls the corner of her mouth. “Did anyone tell you about the time he accidentally dyed his nose green?”

Molly stops sniffing and looks at Lady Donovan with curiosity.

“No,”

“Of course not, you won’t know any of the Holmes gossip, do you? Oh, we are going to have some fun.”

Molly spends the evening wallowing in a blissfully warm bath and listening to Lady Donovan’s stories of the Holmes estate. She has an awful lot of them, all bustling with so many characters Molly can hardly keep track, but she enjoys them nonetheless. Lady Donovan certainly has a sharp wit and a way of spinning a tale, even if Molly sometimes feels a little disloyal laughing at some of the more unflattering tales of Sir Sherlock.

Lord Holmes appears in a few of the stories as well, though never in a comical light. Lady Donovan’s impression of him seems much like John’s – he appears mostly in an austere role, as a disciplinarian and judge in the tales of other people’s pratfalls and tomfooleries. 

“But he’s a very fair Lord,” Lady Donovan assures Molly. “He does everything for the good of Hoop, honestly. I don’t think the country would run so well without him. Especially not with _that man_ on the throne.”

Molly nods, absorbing this. All in all, she goes to bed feeling rather better than she had thought she would – but the thought of her impending marriage weighs like a brick on her heart.

 

Molly is woken the next morning by Lady Donovan, who informs her Lord Mycroft has sent word that he will arrive in the evening. As Lady Donovan begins the business of unravelling and brushing Molly’s hair there is a knock at the door. Lady Donovan goes to answer it.

“Oh,” she says. “It’s _you_.”

“Ah, Sally, as sweet a breath of fresh air in the morning as ever. I’d like to speak to the Princess.” Sir Sherlock’s deep voice sounds from the other side of the door.

“We’ll see,” Lady Donovan says and slams the door in his face. “Sir Sherlock to see you, Your Highness. Shall I tell him to bog off?”

“No,” Molly says, although she can’t help smiling a little at the bluntness of Lady Donovan’s manner. “Let him in.”

Lady Donovan gives a sigh as if to let Molly know what a terrible mistake she’s making and opens the door. 

Sir Sherlock enters, with a glare at Lady Donovan and bows to Molly. In his arms he holds what looks like a small cart, lined with purple silk.

“I, uh, brought you a present, Your Highness,” Sir Sherlock says, laying the cart at her feet. Molly looks at it blankly.

“It’s for your hair,” Sir Sherlock says. “If you insist on keeping it that ridiculous length, which I don’t advise, you’ll need something to keep it from getting dusty. May I?”

Molly nods and Sir Sherlock darts forward, picking up the bulk of Molly’s hair and placing it on the cart.

“You can pull it behind you as you walk, or have the maid do it,” Sir Sherlock throws a dismissive glance at Lady Donovan, who scowls. “Or you can attach a ribbon to the sash of your dress and pull it along, like so.”

Sir Sherlock stands back to show the effect. It might be – a little odd, Molly thinks, pulling her hair along behind her in a cart but she reflects Sir Sherlock isn’t wrong about the dust. Sir Sherlock fidgets as he watches her examine it and suddenly Molly realises – this is his way of apologising to her.

“Thank you,” she says, meeting his eyes, “What a very thoughtful gift.”

Sir Sherlock’s shoulders relax an infinitesimal amount, and he smiles at her, the same crumple-eyed smile she’d seen him give John that first night she knew him. It makes him look a great deal younger.

“I hear your brother will be here this evening,” she says

Sir Sherlock’s smile fades into a scowl. “My commiserations.”

Molly looks at him for a moment, and an idea dawns on her. 

“I wonder,” says Molly. “Would you show me your library? I might need your help with something.”

 

Sherlock, Molly and Lady Donovan spend much of the day ensconced in the library – Sherlock shows Molly the location of all the books she asks for, and even seems to catch on to her plan, coming back with extra texts, or flipping through and pointing to certain pertinent passages. Lady Donovan watches them at work, clearly rather nonplussed, but says nothing.

Eventually a servant knocks to tell them that Lord Mycroft has returned.

“He has gone to refresh himself but asks that you join him for dinner in the Great Hall in an hour.”

“Very well,” Molly says, feeling her stomach turn into a tangle of nerves. She picks up some of the most relevant books, hugging them to her chest for a moment, before impulsively deciding to place them in the little cart Sherlock has given her, covering them back up again with her hair.

Lady Donovan dresses Molly for the dinner with exceeding care, in a light lilac-coloured silk gown brocaded with silver. Molly notes that the wardrobes are well-stocked with similarly beautiful dresses in exactly her size, and wonders how on earth the Holmes’ have managed it.

Lady Donovan accompanies her to the dinner, silently squeezing her arm in solidarity as they enter the Great Hall. The table is laid, but only a few people are in attendance – to the right of the table sits Lestrade, looking smart in a velvet doublet and flashing silver rings. Sir Sherlock sits at the far end of the table, with another younger man Molly doesn’t recognise, and an expression rather like someone enduring some form of intense mental torture. Directly in the centre of the room, and with an empty space set pointedly beside him, sits the man Molly is immediately certain must be Lord Mycroft Holmes. 

The man stands as soon as he sees her, and bows deeply. Molly stares at him. He is tall, taller even that Sir Sherlock, trim of figure and richly dressed in a deep purple velvet, a ruby burning on one long fingered hand. His hair is straighter than Sherlock’s but just as dark, and his face has the same unmoving quality as his brother’s, eyes seeming to take in everything about her as his expression gives away nothing.

Molly takes a deep breath. 

“Lord Mycroft. I am most grateful for your hospitality.”

“I am most happy to have been honoured with your visit,” says Lord Mycroft. “Please, sit by me.”

Molly carefully walks up to her place at the table, rather uncomfortably aware of the squeaking wheels of the cart behind her. Lord Mycroft waves his hand in a careless gesture and a servant darts forward to fill her glass with wine. She takes it and Lord Mycroft raises his own in a salute to her, with a smile that does not quite meet his eyes.

“My councillors and I were just discussing arrangements for the wedding,” he says. “We would be glad to have your thoughts on the subject.”

“My thoughts, My Lord, are that there has been some misunderstanding on the subject. I do not intend to marry.”

There is a long silence, in which Lord Mycroft regards her with a rather frighteningly calm expression. Molly digs her fingernails into her palms and forces herself to hold his gaze.

Then Lord Mycroft seems to relax a little, letting out a short sigh. “I am afraid my brother has not explained the situation to you adequately.”

“Oh no,” says Molly. “He explained very thoroughly.”

“Then you understand that a marriage is advantageous to us both.”

“I understand how a marriage is advantageous to you,” Molly says. “As you have no claim to the throne.”

“And you have not the means to stake your claim,” Lord Mycroft says, in clipped tones.

“On the contrary,” Molly stands and picks up one of her books, which she sets on the table with a thump, flipping through the pages to the one she bookmarked. “All Liege Lords owe service of themselves and their armies to their Queen when requested.”

“You are not yet Queen.”

“I may not have my throne, because a usurper sits in it, but I am your Queen by right. Every book I have read is clear on the subject.”

Molly bends and moves the rest of the stack of books up onto the table. “I have bookmarked the pages for your reference. Lord Mycroft, either you acknowledge my blood right to rule, in which case it is treason to deny me the use of your armies, or you do not – in which case my hand in marriage is worthless to you. Do you, in front of all these witnesses, state your intent to treasonously deny me my rights?”

Lord Mycroft stares at her for a moment, and then turns to look at his brother. Sir Sherlock has his cup lifted to his lips but it doesn’t obscure the smile on his face.

“I had expected better of you, little brother.”

“It’s none of my doing, Mycroft,” Sir Sherlock says. 

Lord Mycroft’s eyes narrow slightly as he looks at his brother, who stares insolently back. With an effort he looks back to Molly, the smile that pulls at his mouth but not his eyes on his face again.

“Naturally it is not my intent to deny you anything you desire,” he says. “Your Highness. But – if you’ll excuse me – you are inexperienced in the ways of the world, and most especially in matters of war. The guiding hand of a husband….”

“I am very happy to take your advice,” Molly says. “I have heard much of your great wisdom and fortitude in these difficult times. But not as my husband.”

“A bond of marriage would fortify any alliance that we make.”

“I do not believe it to be necessary,” Molly says, and lifts her chin to stare at him. “You will not change my mind.”

Lord Mycroft frowns heavily at her for a long moment, and then rises to his feet, sinking into a deep bow.

“Your Highness.” 

And with that he turns and sweeps out of the room.

 

Once they are returned to their room, Molly collapses on her sofa, and Lady Donovan closes the door behind them, and leans back against it, eyes wide. Then to Molly’s surprise, she raises a hand to her mouth and begins to laugh.

“What?” says Molly. “What is so funny?”

“It’s – it’s just… his face, Your Highness.”

Molly stares and then, reluctantly, begins to chuckle too. “I suppose I surprised him.”

“You did,” Lady Donovan says. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen it happen except once or twice before.”

“What do you think it meant, when he left the room like that?” Molly asks anxiously. “Without eating anything. Was he very offended?”

“He’s thinking,” Lady Donovan says, confidently. “The Holmes’ always behave like that when they are thinking, trust me. He’ll come back in a little while with some sort of complicated master plan and everyone will have to scrabble around to put it into place.”

“Hmmm,” Molly says doubtfully. She still isn’t entirely sure she hasn’t made the biggest mistake of her life.

 

Molly is woken early the next morning by a knock at her door. To her surprise, on opening it, she sees a rather harassed-looking Lestrade carrying a bundle in his arms and a scroll of paper.

“Your Highness, I am sorry to disturb you but, uh, Lord Mycroft bids me tell you that he has put together a plan of study for your education and to inform you of his most sincere recommendation that you embark upon it immediately.”

“What?”

Lestrade hands her a scroll.

_Your Highness,_

_Further to our conversation last night, in which you were kind enough to state that you would be willing to take my advice on subjects related to your rule, I have taken the liberty of putting together a programme of study for your benefit in the skills I believe most essential for a monarch who may shortly be leading her subjects into battle. Times and locations are listed below._

_Your most loyal subject,_

_Mycroft Holmes_

Molly looks at the timetable – she is, apparently, learning combat skills in the early morning, horsewomanship before lunch and in the afternoon attending the magistrate’s court with Sir Sherlock.

“Combat skills are with me,” Lestrade says, with a slightly apologetic smile. “You, uh, may wish to change. Here.” He hands her a bundle of clothes.

 

Molly feels utterly out of place in her costume of pantaloons and a white men’s shirt. She’s had to discard the trolley, which means her hair is trailing in the dirt of the knight’s practice yard.

“The first thing I’m going to teach you,” says Lestrade. “Is how to hold a sword. Here.” He hands one to Molly, hilt first. Molly, immediately surprised by the weight of it, twists her wrist and drops it. Lestrade sighs.

“This is going to take quite a lot of work,” he says, and moves forward to correct her stance.

 

After her combat lesson, every part of Molly aches in a way it never has before. Living in a small room for most of one’s life does not, she has found, prepare one’s body for any sort of physical rigour. By the end of the lesson, sweat is running down her body and making her shirt stick to her, most unpleasantly and she feels shaky and nauseous. 

At one point, however, she had achieved a successful lunge, which had caused Lestrade to exclaim loudly and pat her on the back, which Molly feels is rather a gratifying achievement.

But there is little time to pause. Her next appointment is at the stables, where she is relieved to see the friendly face of John Watson, leading Billy over to her.

“We’ll start nice and easy,” he says. “Remember, he’s a gentle old boy. Here, come and pet him first.”

Molly walks reluctantly over, and John shows her how to feed the horse a handful of hay and a piece of sugar, and touch it’s surprisingly soft fur. 

“You have to be comfortable with him,” says John. “He can sense your moods… if you’re nervous, he will be too.”

Eventually, Molly relaxes and starts to feel even a little fond of the odd, snuffling wet-nosed creature, once it becomes apparent that it really doesn’t want to bite her.

After that John shows her how to mount and guides the horse in small circles around the courtyard.

“You’re doing really well,” John says kindly at the end of the lesson, after which Molly feels, if possible, even more tired and achy than before. 

He doesn’t smile as often as he had when they were on their journey, Molly thinks, and his eyes look sad. 

“I had dinner with Lord Mycroft and Sir Sherlock last night,” Molly says, as John helps her dismount. 

He pauses for just the slightest of moments. “Oh?”

“He looks very well,” Molly says. “They both do. And Sir Sherlock he – he made me a special device to keep my hair from getting dirty. Sort of a hair wagon, I suppose. It’s very clever.”

John does smile at this, properly, eyes warming and creasing in their formerly familiar way. “I don’t think anyone else in the world would think to make a thing like that,” he says softly.

“No,” Molly says. She leans closer to John. “I’m seeing him this afternoon. I can take a message, if you like.”

John lowers his eyes and blinks for a moment. “Tell him the hemlock grove, at midnight,” he says. “He’ll know what I mean.”

 

The magistrate’s court is a large wooden building set by the castle gates. Lord Mycroft’s subjects arrive from miles around, Molly is told, to receive judgments on their disputes and problems from the Holmes’.

“Most Lords just leave it to their bailiffs to deal with the problems of their people,” Lady Donovan explains to Molly as she helps her change out of her sweaty riding clothes and into a dress. “But the Holmes’ wisdom is famous. People come from all over to hear their judgments. It’s creepy as hell,” Lady Donovan says. “Both of them have this knack, they just look at someone and somehow they know the truth of a situation right away.”

Sir Sherlock greets Molly at the entrance, scowling heavily at the crowds thronging into the hall, but he cheers up once they take their seats and are presented with the first case – an ostler who declares loudly that a band of travellers have stolen his horse. Sherlock’s eyes narrow and he asks the man all manner of peculiar questions about the structure of the stable, the colour of the horse and the behaviour of his dogs on the night in question. Eventually Sherlock sits back with triumph flashing over his features.

“He is lying,” he tells Molly. “The horse has not been stolen – he has merely painted it with tar in order to change the colour and blamed the travellers in the hope that he would be paid a compensatory sum for it.”

“How did you know – oh, the dogs. They didn’t bark?”

Sir Sherlock looks a little surprised for a moment but then nods. “Exactly. If there had been an intruder they would certainly have made a noise, but their own master...”

“And the tar?”

“Obvious, look at his fingernails! How will you sentence him?”

“I..? Won’t – won’t the magistrate deliver the sentence?”

“You are the Queen, your will outranks his or mine.”

“Oh,” says Molly. 

Sir Sherlock raises his eyebrows slightly, a gleam in his eyes like a challenge. 

“Very well,” says Molly. “But since I know little of the law I will ask the advice of the good magistrate.”

The magistrate spends a great deal of time digging through his books to find references to various ancient precedents and legal mentions of horse theft, deception and the defilement of animals and not really offering his opinion. In the end Molly orders the lying ostler to pay the travellers a small sum for maligning their good name and decrees that the horse must be cleaned. 

As she delivers her judgment she looks up to the back of the room and notes, briefly, a familiar face under a dark hood, watching her. By the time she blinks, however, he has gone.

 

Molly’s lessons in the arts of rulership continue, and the week goes by in a blur of aching muscles and the clamouring voices of the people she meets in the courts. She doesn’t arrive home until late in the afternoon and barely manages a few bites of food before falling into a deep sleep. By the second week, Molly finds her energy returning, her body clearly adapting to the demands made of it. Then in the third week Lestrade decides Molly should try learning to bear the weight of a chainmail suit and Molly’s muscles hurt twice as much as ever.

It is, of course, on one of these evenings, when Molly is aching and swaying on her feet with exhaustion, that Lestrade knocks on the door of her chamber with an invitation to join Lord Mycroft for dinner.

“You don’t have to go, you know,” Lady Donovan remarks, as Molly blearily stumbles off her couch to go and pick a dress from her wardrobe.

“I’m not giving Lord Mycroft the satisfaction of thinking that I – that I can’t—” Molly breaks off with a yawn. “That I can’t manage my lessons.”

Lady Donovan makes a sceptical noise, but roots around in the wardrobe, taking out a dress from the back, a rather elaborately jewel studded gown with a very stiff bodice.

“Wear this then,” she says. “It’s so uncomfortable it’s _sure_ to keep you awake.”

There is only a small party in the dining room: Lord Mycroft, of course, at the centre of the table, Sir Sherlock, with the young man Molly had has seen him with before, Lestrade, Lady Donovan and herself. Molly takes her seat beside Lord Mycroft. Lady Donovan was quite correct – as much as Molly would like to slump on the table and fall asleep the dress has a life of its own and insists on holding her uncomfortably upright.

“Your Highness, I hope you are well,” Lord Mycroft addresses her politely.

“Very much so,” Molly answers, in as gracious a tone as she can muster. “I must thank you for your kind provision of so much exercise. It has been a very bracing experience.”

For a moment, Molly thinks she sees a corner of Lord Mycroft’s mouth twitch upwards, but it must have been a trick of the candlelight.

“I am most pleased to hear it,” he says. “I was concerned that you might find the experience difficult.”

“Not in the least,” Molly says lightly. She leans back slightly and her corset gives a loud creak – forcing her to sit straight again. One of Lord Mycroft’s eyebrows rises, but he says nothing.

“And what of your time in court, with my brother? Some young women might find it a rather dull experience.”

“Oh, but it’s fascinating!” Molly exclaims. “People have so many vastly complicated problems, things I would never have thought of, and which I have never read of in books. And it is so clever how the law has answers for almost all of them. Although, there was a case today that was most confusing, even to the magistrate.”

“Oh?” Lord Mycroft says. 

Molly starts explaining a rather complex set of circumstances involving a couple who had divorced and divided up their property, barring a flock of geese which each claimed they had a right to. The flock was descended from one which the bride had brought to the house as part of her dowry, but the man claimed since all the currently living geese had been born under his roof and fed off of his lands they were his by rights. Mycroft listens with an intense focus, dark blue eyes fixed upon her face.

He agrees that it is a tricky point of law and explains various reasons why, and related cases he has come across in his experience, and even touches a little on the philosophical treatises of the ancients on the subject of parenthood and the transference of rights. He clearly has a depth of knowledge on the subject, Molly realises, beyond the magistrate’s and certainly beyond her own. She rather forgets her tiredness, and her horrible tight dress, listening to him speak.

“And what was your judgment, in the end?” Mycroft asks.

“I awarded the geese to the woman,” Molly says. “But with the caveat that for the next year she must give her former husband a portion of their eggs in repayment for his hospitality to the geese.”

Mycroft nods. “A reasonable solution,” he says.

“And what would you—” Molly begins, but they are distracted by a shout from the other end of the table. Sir Sherlock is on his feet scowling at the young man beside him, who looks equally irate.

“Brother?” Mycroft’s voice has a certain dry undertone, in which Molly detects some hidden rebuke. Sherlock turns, flushing, to glare at him.

“I cannot work with him, I _told_ you.”

And before Lord Mycroft can open his mouth to say another word Sherlock has turned and walked out of the room.

The man he’d been arguing with is scowling thunderously. “It wasn’t my fault!” he says. “All I said was…”

Lord Mycroft sighs heavily and raises a hand. “No matter, Phillip. I will speak to my brother. In the meantime, perhaps you can help Lestrade for the next few days, hmm?”

Lestrade looks very much like he’s trying not to grimace, but nods at the young man. There is a slight ripple down the table and then people begin their conversations again.

“Who is that man that Sir Sherlock was arguing with?”

“His squire, Phillip Anderson. He is of a good family and his parents sent him here for training. He has not yet learned to weather my brother’s moods.” 

“Oh,” says Molly. “I always thought squires were supposed to assist knights on quests – he wasn’t with Sir Sherlock when he came to rescue me.”

“Phillip is not quite at that stage of his education where he can be entrusted with delicate and difficult matters,” Lord Mycroft says. “Sherlock argued, and I fear I agreed, that his presence would only be a hindrance.”

“John and Sir Sherlock seemed to work very well together,” Molly muses. 

“John Watson,” Lord Mycroft says sharply. “Is not of noble blood.”

Molly blushes, suddenly aware that she has touched rather too close on the territory of John and Sir Sherlock’s secret.

“Oh of – of course,” she says. 

Lord Mycroft is looking at her closely over his glass. “Your Highness,” he says. “I wonder if, once you have finished your meal, you would accompany me in a little stroll in our garden. It really is most delightful in the evenings. I should like you to see it.”

Molly thinks longingly of her bed, but remembers her determination not to let Lord Mycroft see her as weak. She nods.

“That sounds lovely.”

 

The gardens _are_ lovely, Molly realises – she has had so little spare time in her stay at Castle Holmes that she’d barely been able to do more than catch a glimpse of them out of the window. They are set within sight of the sea below, and the salt flavours the air, mingling with the sweeter perfume of herbs and flowers. Molly enjoys the way the setting sun burnishes the waves, and how the flowers seem to catch the dying light and glow with it.

Lord Mycroft pauses by a border of delphiniums to pick a bouquet, which he ties elegantly with a ribbon and hands to Molly.

“These were my mother’s favourites,” he says. “She designed the garden herself. She took a great deal of comfort in it.” Lord Mycroft is gazing off towards the sea, expression unreadable. 

Molly takes a deep breath of the flowers, admiring their smell and the depth of their colour. “It really is beautiful,” she offers.

“My mother had a hard life, but excellent taste.”

Molly opens her mouth to ask him to tell her some more about his mother but is cut short by his next words.

“You are doing my brother no favours by passing messages between him and John Watson.” 

Molly almost drops the flowers. “Wha- what?”

Mycroft turns to look at her. “They have met three times since you arrived, in secret, facilitated as I am quite certain, by you. As of yet only I have noticed, but living in a castle, Your Highness, is like living in a glass house. It is a matter of time before the gossip begins.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Molly answers, her tone not quite as convincing as she would have liked.

Lord Mycroft sighs. “Your loyalty is admirable,” he states flatly. “But I assure you I have known of my brother’s predilections for a very long time. You cannot break his confidence to me.”

Molly is silent for a long moment, thinking on what he has said. “Then you must see,” she says, quietly. “How unhappy they both are. Is there not some way that they can…”

Lord Mycroft shakes his head. “People of our class, Your Highness, have a duty to our people and our inheritance before all else. We do not indulge our passions in any direction we please. Unfortunately my brother has always lacked self-control – it is my duty to protect him from himself. I’ll ask you to aid me in that.”

“If you wish to keep them apart then why did you send them together to fetch me?” Molly asks.

Lord Mycroft pauses and looks at her, as if contemplating her question. “They work well together,” he admits. 

“Even so, you could have sent someone else. Lestrade, perhaps. I think – I think it pains you to see them unhappy as much as it does me.” 

Lord Mycroft has gone still, and turned a little away from her.

“Perhaps,” he says, shortly. “That is _my_ weakness.”

Molly is silent for a while. “It is a cruel law,” she says. “When I am Queen I will change it.”

Lord Mycroft sighs again. “Even a King or Queen needs the assent of their people to enact great changes,” he explains. “Or they run the risk of losing their throne. The law against persons conducting dalliances with those of their own sex is one of the more popular prohibitions Magnussen has brought into effect. The man has a gift for inflaming the prejudices of the common people.”

“I can’t understand why…”

“People are stupid, Your Highness,” Mycroft says. “To properly grasp that is one of the basic principles of governance. Magnussen understands it very well, which is unfortunate, since the ends he puts that knowledge are… distasteful. It will take many years to undo the damage wrought by that man and the ideas he’s imposed on this land.”

Molly glances sideways at him, and something about his face, cast in profile, snags at her memory.

“Oh,” she says suddenly.

“What is it?” Mycroft turns to frown at her.

“I just realised – it was you.” The words tumble from her mouth. “In the courthouse, the first day… you were watching me deliver my judgment.”

Lord Mycroft’s expression is impassive. 

“Merely keeping an eye on your education.” 

“You were in disguise.”

“Clearly not very effectively,” he says, and in the dying light of the sunset Molly again can’t quite be sure if that is a smile curling at the corner of his mouth.

Molly stares at him. “You didn’t give me those tasks for my education, you were testing me! And hoping I would fail, so that you would have an excuse to make my throne from me.”

“At first, perhaps, yes,” Lord Mycroft says. “But as time passed, I found increasingly that I hoped you would pass.”

Molly blinks at that. “Really,” she says sceptically.

“Contrary to what you may believe, I did not wish the throne purely for my own benefit. Many Kings and Queens who have ruled by right of blood have proved to be weak, foolish or lacking in judgment. I will not see my country suffer under such a ruler again. Not after having to endure Magnussen for so long.”

“I see,” Molly says, feeling rather stung. “And, have you decided, have I passed this… this…” For a moment Molly contemplates using one of the swear words she’s overheard in the stable yard but recognises that would never do for a Queen. “ This foolish test of yours yet?”

Lord Mycroft turns and looks her full in the eye.

“From all I have seen I can think of no one better suited to rule Hoop.” To her surprise, without taking his eyes off her face, he lowers himself down on one knee. “You have my undying loyalty, my Queen. I beg that you will accept my service.”

And then he bends his head before her, clearly waiting for her response. Molly looks down at him, at the sight of this tall proud man kneeling before her. His dark hair has fallen forward, screening his face and it suddenly occurs to Molly that it looks rather softer than she would have imagined at a distance. She almost wants to touch it.

“Lord Mycroft,” she addresses the hair. “I am glad to have won your loyalty. But I hope you will see fit to test me no more, at least not without my knowledge .”

Lord Mycroft inclines his head even deeper. 

“Um, you may stand,” Molly says, her cheeks heating without her quite knowing why.

He does, with a small smile at her. “But as it happens, I do suggest that you continue with your lessons,” he says. “They are all most important skills.”

“If I must,” replies Molly. “I wish I could avoid wearing chain mail.”

Lord Mycroft’s smile fades. “That may prove necessary all too soon. Rumour has it Magnussen is so shaken by your disappearance that he is raising an army. He hasn’t yet discovered your location but when he does…”

“Have you heard anything else from Castle Hooper?” Molly asks. “I had a maid, Mrs Hudson…”

“I know her. In fact, she wrote to me a few times advising that I rescue you.”

Molly blinks. “Oh. She did?”

“Indeed. Excellent woman. I believe our mothers were friends.” Mycroft glances at her face. “From what I hear she is well, and not suspected of involvement in your rescue.”

Molly breathes a little more easily. Lord Mycroft gives her an intent look.

“You are very pale,” he says. “I have kept you up too long tonight.”

“I think I had better sleep,” Molly agrees.

Lord Mycroft bows to her. “Sleep well, Your Highness.”

Molly turns as she enters the castle to see Lord Mycroft still standing in the garden where she had left him, his pale patrician face turned towards the sea, framed by the silver glow of the moonlight. Raising one hand in farewell, she hurries in and to her bed. 

 

Molly’s lessons continue as before after this, but, thanks to the knowledge that she is no longer being tested, and that she has somehow managed to win Lord Mycroft’s approval, they seem a little easier. Soon she is able to tolerate the chain mail vest for hours at a time, even to fight in it, and she can canter around on Billy quite admirably. Molly and John have even ventured beyond the limits of the castle, and down through the woods to ride by the sea, an experience Molly thinks she will treasure forever, for the sheer joy of feeling the horse gallop along the sands, making it fly and hearing the sea crash onto the shore beside her.

She takes the opportunity, when they stop for a moment, far away from the castle and voices half-drowned out by the sound of the sea, to tell John about her audience with Lord Mycroft.

“He fears that if you continue meeting, you will be discovered.” Molly feels a prickle of guilt as she watches a bleak expression pass over John’s face. “I’m sorry, John.”

“It is no fault of yours,” John says. “I should have known better than to—I should have known better. Tell – tell Sherlock, would you?”

Molly hardly gets a chance to see Sir Sherlock, however, as the court is out of session and he has been sent, with Anderson, to one of the distant villages in the Holmes estate to oversee a new mechanism of harvesting grain that has been developed there.

Molly rather misses the court, particularly as its absence only seems to encourage Lestrade to give her even more punishing physical tasks. He soon informs her that the next step in her education is to learn to ride while wearing the chain mail. The most difficult part, Molly finds, is getting onto the horse, after which the worst is over, though she does feel rather sorry for poor Billy, who must be wondering what happened to his mistress to make her suddenly so much harder and heavier.

Lestrade is on a horse beside her, watching closely.

“We’ll ride out to where the trees begin at first,” he says. “And then ride back again. Nice and slow now.”

They clop over at a gentle pace, Molly getting a feel for the way the chain mail changes the rhythm of the ride, the diligent Billy grunting patiently. 

They are almost at the forest when they hear a cry.

“Help! Oh, help me!” 

Lestrade freezes, holding out his hand for Molly to stop.

“Help, my baby!” The voice is unmistakeably a woman’s and in great distress. Molly cannot bear it any longer, but urges on her horse, squeezing his sides to make him trot faster towards the source of the noise. 

“Your Highness—” Lestrade calls after her, but then canters up beside her. They turn the corner and see an overturned wagon, a woman lying on her side in the open road. She holds out her hands to them.

“Help me, oh please, help me!”

“What happened?”

“Bandits!” the woman cries. “They attacked my wagon and they took my baby from me!”

From the trees, a sound rises high and desperate – a child crying.

Molly stumbles to get down from her horse but the mail is slowing her down, making her trip as she dismounts and she twists her ankle painfully. Lestrade is faster, already approaching the edge of the forest but he pauses, looking at her.

“Go!” Molly says, and Lestrade runs into the forest after the sound of the crying child. 

Molly stares after him into the thick forest, trying to discern what is happening behind the canopy of dense trees.

“Has anyone ever told you,” an amused-sounding voice says, suddenly close in her ear. “That you are really far too trusting.”

Molly moves to turn around but before she knows it, there’s a hand yanking her braid back and a knife at her throat. 

“Do exactly what I tell you, Princess.” The woman’s voice is now completely devoid of any hint of tears . 

Molly remembers what Lestrade had taught her and slices her elbow backwards, managing to break the woman’s grip and draw her sword at the same time. The woman raises her eyebrows and gives her an odd, almost pleased look, before reaching to her side and pulling out a sword of her own. 

They circle each other for a moment before Molly lunges at her. The woman feints easily, her sword rising and slashing through the air quickly. Molly jumps back but not fast enough to prevent the very tip from cutting her cheek. Molly feels the sting and the horrible sensation of blood running down the side of her face. The woman’s sword rises again and the flat of her blade slams into Molly’s sword hand, forcing her to drop it. The woman advances, grabbing Molly by both arms and forcing them into a deadlock behind her back.

She lets out a low whistle, and several other women emerge from the wagon, all smiling and holding weapons. Another approaches from the forest.

“I thought she nearly had you, Mary,” one of them says.

“Not a chance,” the woman holding her returns cheerfully.

One of the women grabs Molly's chain mail vest, pulling it off her, while another approaches with a great black hood which she pushes over Molly’s face. The world goes black.

 

Molly hears a sound of creaking, and grunts of exertion. Her hands and legs are bound tightly and she is thrown with very little ceremony onto a wooden floor – Molly recognises the smell of oil, straw and wood, and decides she must be in the, now righted, wagon. Her guess is proved correct when with a shudder, the horse’s hooves begin to sound on the road and the ground beneath her knees shakes, knocking Molly onto her side. Unable to right herself when so tightly bound, Molly simply lies still and listens to the clattering hooves and the grinding of the wagon’s wheels.

Molly cannot tell how much time has passed when the noise of the wagon finally stops – it is difficult to keep track of time in the dark and with no clues to help her. She hears the warm buzz of female voices, laughter, and the crackling of a fire. Eventually there is a squeak of a hinge as the wagon door opens, and the sound of footsteps approaching her.

“There you are,” a surprisingly kind voice says, and the hood over Molly’s head is pulled off. She blinks in the dim light, focussing on the face of her captor – it is the woman she fought on the road, her short blonde hair haloed by the light from the outside world behind her. There is a tray laden with food in her hands which she sets down, before reaching back to untie Molly’s hands.

“No funny business, all right?” she says. “I shouldn’t like to have to hurt you again.”

Molly winces as the feeling rushes back into her cramped limbs. Her wrists have angry looking red circles around them where the rope has chafed them. Her ankles are still tied.

The woman, Mary, Molly remembers, places the tray of food in front of her.

“Eat up,” she says. “You’ll need your strength.”

“You are Morstanites,” Molly says, recalling Sherlock and John’s conversation from the journey over to Holmes.

“We are indeed.”

“What was that sound – in the forest – the child?”

Mary smiles as if Molly has paid her a compliment and calls out. “Julia, the Princess wants to know what happened to our baby!”

Another face appears at the wagon, a dark-haired woman who looks at Molly with a rather harder smile than Mary’s. She tilts back her head and emits a cry, an eerily accurate imitation of a child in distress.

Molly shivers. “That’s a nasty trick.”

Julia’s expression darkens. “You might not know it, Princess, with your pretty dresses and your castles but for a common woman to survive in this world she needs a few tricks.”

“Julia,” Mary says, mildly. “Manners.”

Julia huffs, and tosses her head, but says nothing more.

“Eat your stew, Your Highnesss,” Mary says. “You’ll be home soon.”

“Home…” says Molly. “You mean...?”

Mary gazes down at her, a faint gleam of pity in her soft-looking blue eyes. “We’re taking you back to Castle Hooper, of course,” she says.

 

The journey goes by in a blur of darkness and aching joints. Molly is tied in the dark for most of it, as they stop only briefly, allowing Molly to eat, stretch her painful limbs and relieve herself.

Eventually though, the wagon grinds to a halt and Molly is hauled out, the black hood lifted. The Morstanites are standing gathered around her, expressions serious, and Mary is at her side. In the distance Molly thinks she can see the square turrets of Castle Hooper, looming over the trees.

“Let one of us come with you,” Julia says, her eyes large and worried, fixed on Mary.

Mary shakes her head. “I know him, I know how to handle him. Believe me, I’m better off alone. The rest of you, return home. I’ll come back to you soon with our reward and if I don’t…. you know what to do.”

The Morstanites all look sombre in the early morning light, and they clap Mary on the shoulder, ignoring Molly, before climbing back into their wagon.

Mary grasps Molly by the elbow and bids her walk. “This way.”

They arrive at Castle Hooper after a brief stumbling walk, Molly still struggling with numb and bruised limbs after her torturous journey. Mary says nothing to her, her face pale and set, containing none of the amused spark Molly had noted in their previous dealings.

“Who’s there?” the guard at the gate calls down as they approach.

“Mary the Morstanite,” Mary calls. “I’ve brought the King a gift.”

 

Armed guards lead them into the Great Hall. Molly looks around with interest at the high raftered, cold and sparsely attired room. At the far end of it, all dressed in state, is a line of men and women at the centre of which is a man in a crown. He stands as they enter, and Molly sees the light flash off his glasses. 

When Molly had imagined the King, as a child in her Tower, she had always pictured a kindly and handsome figure – rosy-cheeked, like the illustrations in her books, broad- shouldered and smiling. But then she had also imagined the King to be her father. The man who approaches her, shoulders slightly hunched, long fingers steepled and cool blue eyes gleaming behind their glasses, bears no resemblance to her at all, and no resemblance to her idea of a King either.

“Well, well, well. The prodigal daughter returns. It seems you are quite as efficient your reputation supposed you to be, Mary. Where did you find her?”

“Holmes.”

“Ah, of course. I should have known rebellion would spring from that quarter. Never mind. My armies are ready. We shall crush them.”

Magnussen has drawn up in front of them now. One large, pale hand raises and pats Molly, on the cheek. Molly flinches at the unexpected dampness of his touch.

“I cannot tell you how pleased I am to see you safe, daughter.”

“You are not my father,” Molly spits out.

Magnussen’s eyes flash with amusement. “Is that what they told you? Tut tut. I can assure you...” His fingers wander across her cheek to trace the scar where Mary’s sword cut her. “The blood that flows in your veins flows alike in mine.” 

He scrapes his fingernails against her cut, flaking off fragments of dried blood. With eyes fixed mockingly on Molly’s face he raises his fingers to his lips, licking off the piece of blood.

Mary makes a short cut-off noise of disgust beside her.

Magnussen turns back to the court. “As you know,” he says. “My daughter is sadly afflicted by the same madness that took her mother’s life. All these years it has been my joy and sorrow to care for her, and to rule in her place. Sadly certain unscrupulous persons kidnapped her in an attempt to use her for their own political ends. Thankfully, justice has prevailed. Don’t worry, my dove, we will return you to your own little Tower shortly.”

“I don’t want to go back,” Molly says. “Please, I—”

“I’m sorry, my darling, but Daddy knows best. I can see what a terrible toll being out in the outside world has had on you. Only look at your hair, so wild and dirty, and the smell of you…” His nose sniffs delicately at the air around Molly. “I suppose you haven’t washed in days.” 

“Only because…”

“It’s clear to anyone who sees you that you are not fit to take care of yourself, let alone a Kingdom, my dear.”

He glances at the guards standing beside her. “Take them both to the Tower.”

“Wait!” says Mary. “Both of us?”

The light catches on his glasses when Magnussen turns to look at her, shielding his gaze. “Well, of course. Her Highness will need a maid, won’t she? I don’t trust her previous ones. And it will be quite a promotion for you, will it not, to serve a Princess after wandering in the wilds for so long?”

“Our deal,” Mary says, gritting her teeth. “Was that you would offer pardons to myself and my women in exchange for the Princess.”

“And I certainly intend to honour that,” Magnussen replies, eyebrows rising. “I cannot have an unpardoned criminal serving my daughter! But, as to your women, you must exercise a little patience, Mary. People are not well-disposed to Morstanites, in these times. They see you as wild and dangerous creatures. I can’t pardon you all willy nilly. Spend a few years quietly in court, showing yourself as an example of Morstanite peace and humility, and I am sure I can grant pardon to your friends with little fanfare.”

Mary stares at him for a few moments, face expressionless. “I see,” she says.

“Well, then we are all agreed. Show them both the way, and give the Morstanite the keys.” Magnussen says. “Wait!” He steps closer to press a damp, oddly cool kiss against Molly’s forehead, and cup her face with his clammy hand. “My darling girl. Welcome home.”

 

The guards escort Molly and Mary to the Tower, where they hand Mary the keys and watch as they climb the little spiral staircase. Mary walks close behind Molly, one hand pressed between her shoulder blades, pushing her onwards. As the stairway narrows, Molly feels as though chest is narrowing with it, making it harder and harder to breathe.

“Please—” she gasps. “Can we…”

Mary prods her in the back. “Keep moving.”

At the top of the steps, Mary unlocks the trapdoor and ushers Molly in.

Molly stares around her old room – it seems smaller than she remembers it, and colder. The floor is still littered with broken glass from when Sir Sherlock broke the window. The wind whistles through the gaping hole.

“I’ll be back to bring you dinner,” Mary says, opening the trapdoor again. 

Molly feels a rush of pure terror at the thought of being abandoned in this place again.

“No,” she says and rushes at Mary trying to wrest the trapdoor keys from her hand. Mary shoves her back hard, and Molly lands in a sprawl, winded.

“ _Don’t_ ,” Mary hisses. “Be stupid. There are guards at the bottom of this Tower. You can’t fight them and you can’t fight me. Stay here where you belong.”

And, as Molly sits up, blinking away her pain, the trapdoor squeaks and Mary is gone.

 

The chill in the Tower is all-consuming, Molly finds. There’s no wood to light a fire, nothing to eat. The clothes in the wardrobe are damp, from the rain that came through the window above it. Molly wraps herself in the blankets from her bed – they are also a little damp and musty from disuse but still better than nothing. She sits and tries to think. What will happen now? Will the Holmes’ be able to find out where she is, and if they do, will they rescue her again? Molly tries to imagine them riding after her… but then Magnussen now knows it was them who had helped her in the first place and Magnussen will be sending an army after them… True, Lord Mycroft had told her he was preparing his own troops, but will they be ready in time? If only there were a way to warn them….

Molly closes her eyes but she can’t help the images that flash through her mind - images of her journey with John and Sherlock, the garden at Castle Holmes, Lady Donovan’s cheeky smile and Lord Mycroft’s sharp and intelligent gaze. Imagines an army falling upon them all.

At long last, when she’s so exhausted she’s close to weeping, Molly curls up in her dusty ruined bed, and falls into a deep sleep.

Molly is woken by Mary, who opens the trapdoor to dump a basket of food and other supplies on the floor, only to immediately pull it shut again. 

Molly picks at the food and sips at the water – cold, and not enough to wash in – and then returns to bed. 

Over the next few days Molly drifts into an odd state between sleeping and waking – everything about the room takes on a nightmarish quality, the jagged frame of the window seeming to leer down at her, the canopy of her bed looming grotesquely above. Even her little stock of books holds no pleasure. Each time she picks up a volume she remembers with a pang the richness of the Holmes’ library, the rosewood-pannelled walls lined with books, and the little window seat that looked out over the sea.

Molly’s bleak mood is punctuated only occasionally by brisk visits from Mary with food and clothes, and on one occasion from Janine and Kate, who come to sweep up the glass and dirt from the floor, and who do not speak or look directly at Molly once in all the time they are there.

At one point Molly hears the tramp of a great many feet in the distance and climbing up on her desk so that she can see out of the window, catches the light gleaming off the armour of a great column of soldiers, marching out of the yard and around the back of the servant’s buildings out of her sight. She feels a sick lurch in her stomach – Lord Mycroft and Sir Sherlock and all the others at Castle Holmes will be facing that army soon. 

It’s clear to Molly that her friends will have difficulties enough without having to think of rescuing her. And then Molly’s resolve hardens. She will have to find a way out herself. 

As she makes to climb down from the window her hair catches on something. Molly turns to look – it is the curved loop of metal which Sir Sherlock had fashioned to keep her hair from getting in his way as he climbed down the Tower – a little rusted, but still standing in place. Molly reaches out a hand to touch its cool surface and then looks down again at the drop beneath her. If only she had some sort of rope….

 

Molly searches her room. She takes all her mildewed clothes out of her wardrobe and tears them into long strips, knotting them together. By the end of the day she has fashioned a short length of rope out of it that she is confident will take her weight.

Suddenly, she hears the scrape of the key in the trapdoor, and she has to scramble to hide what she has made under her bed.

Mary enters, setting her basket on the floor and then, to Molly’s surprise, instead of immediately going away again, walks into the centre of the room, hands on her hips.

“Had a busy day, have we, _Your Highness_?”

“N- no,” Molly says. “I’ve only been reading.”

“Only reading, really! You must get very tired doing nothing but that all day. May I see your book?”

Molly hesitates and goes to her pile of books, picking one at random.

Mary moves quickly as soon as Molly steps out of the way, wrenching back the sheets of her bed and pulling out the rope Molly has spent the day so painstakingly fashioning. Molly freezes.

“Well, well, well,” Mary says.

“I was just—”

“Yes,” Mary says. “I can see that.”

In two steps she’s in front of the fireplace. She throws the cloth rope into it, taking matches out of her pocket and spilling a little of what looks like oil on the pile from a small bottle.

It goes up like a flash. Molly lets out a cry of dismay and falls to her knees before it, feeling the heat on her cheeks and watching helplessly as her hope of escape crumbles into ashes.

Mary kneels beside her, catching her hard by the wrist and pulling her close to whisper in her ear.

“Stupid girl. Did you think you weren’t being watched? You are, almost always.”

And Mary glances at a point behind Molly before swiftly leaping to her feet.

“If we’re quite finished,” she says coolly, and walks towards the trapdoor.

 

Molly sits for a long time by the cooling ashes of the fire, nursing her stinging wrist. What had Mary meant, _you are being watched?_ She is alone in her Tower. Such a thing is impossible.

And yet… Molly thinks about it. How could Mary have known, so quickly and easily, what she had been doing unless she somehow had been observed? Casually, she stands and walks over to the part of the room that Mary had glanced at. The wall is a smooth curve like the rest of the room, except for where a solitary picture sits of the sun sinking in a sea as red as blood. Molly stops to look at it, but there are no holes or punctures in the canvas. She lifts the frame and lets it fall against the wall. 

A fine dust falls from the frame towards the floor, landing on the dark wood of the skirting board. Molly looks down and that is when she notices it – a small hole, and through it, the white flash of something that might be an eye. Heart beating, Molly walks swiftly away to her bed, trying to behave as if she hasn’t noticed anything.

She picks up a book and stares at it unseeingly. If she is being watched there is no hope of escape. Except – _almost_ always. There had clearly been no one watching when Sir Sherlock and John rescued her. Perhaps if she could find out when they did and didn’t watch her she might have a chance…

Molly spends the next few days surreptitiously keeping an eye on the skirting board under the sun picture. Now she has noticed it, she thinks she sometimes sees a faint shadow against the wall, just at that point. More importantly, she has realised, it appears to depart in the evenings, as the sun sets, only for half an hour or so… but leaving her with enough time, Molly thinks, to make an escape.

Mary appears again on the third day with not only her usual food basket but a small white-coloured bundle.

“New dress,” she says shortly. “To replace those you butchered.”

“You were the one who burned them,” Molly points out.

“It’s not long enough for a rope,” Mary says, mockingly. She turns on her heels and leaves.

Molly has to admit, in the absence of enough water for her to do more than give herself a sparse wipe down and with only the clothes she is standing in, a new dress is something of a relief. She puts it on quickly. The material is very simple, plain white cotton, and not particularly warm but it’s nice to feel something clean and new against her skin. 

As she stands in it, and turns around to feel whether it fits her correctly, something knocks against her thigh. She pats the dress – there is a pocket, she realises, sewn shut in the apron of her dress and she can feel something hard inside it.

She waits until the hour when her watchman is gone arrives and then quickly takes off the dress again, tearing off the pocket – she recognises, with a sudden rush of emotion, Mrs Hudson’s neat, slightly slanted stitching. Inside is a small pair of scissors. Molly stares at them for a moment and then laughs. Of _course_.

She waits all night and all of the next day, until the shadow by the skirting board has finally departed, before she begins. Carefully she ties the end of her plait around the protruding metal loop that Sir Sherlock and John had left, using the strongest knots she knows. Then she climbs up onto the narrow window-sill, wobbling slightly and, holding on tight to her own plait, starts to lower herself out of it, feeding the hair through her her hands, inch by inch. Her arms ache already with the effort. The ivy waves by her ears sounding like the sea on the rocks outside Castle Holmes. The sun is lowering and Molly reminds herself, she does not have much time and starts to move faster, taking wider handfuls of hair.

She is halfway down when the rusted metal above her begins to complain, giving a great creak and slowly starting to bend. Molly can see from here, the great knot of her hair shifting lower and pulling the rusted metal with it. _Not yet._

She grits her teeth and lowers herself faster and faster, her whole body jolting every time she drops a distance. The metal doesn’t seem to approve of this action however, only bending faster and pulling towards her frighteningly fast. 

Molly pauses – she’s still too high up, but there’s nothing for it – she will fall otherwise. She swings herself close to the ivy and clings to it with one hand – she’s certain it won’t take her weight but she may at least manage to slow her momentum. From her pocket she takes out the pair of scissors, just as the poker above her makes another lurch downwards. Better to fall under her own steam and without the danger of a large lump of metal falling on her head she tells herself, taking the rope of her plait between her fingers and cutting. It’s taut and thick so it takes a couple of minutes but finally the last hairs break, the scissors fall from Molly’s hand and she is sliding downward, picking up speed, ivy leaves breaking off in her hands. She screws her eyes shut – and suddenly her momentum stops, and she feels stone beneath her feet. 

She opens her eyes. She is only a few feet below where she cut her hair- there is apparently a ledge hidden in the ivy – she looks down, and there’s another beneath it.

 _Of course_ Molly thinks – her spies must have had a way up the outer part of the Tower – and here it is, a hidden staircase winding around the Tower and leading to the side opposite her window. With a lightened heart Molly jumps down to the next step and then the next, feeling her suddenly shortened plait slapping against the back of her neck with every step.

She reaches the bottom of the Tower with a sigh of relief, followed by a fresh surge of worry. The sun has all but set, the sky darkening. Her abandoned hair hangs from the tower window like a banner announcing her escape. She doesn’t have much time. What to do now? 

It is at that moment a soft hand closes around Molly’s, making, for a brief moment, her stomach flood with cold fear.

“Your Highness, come with me.”

Molly turns and catches a glimpse of wide brown eyes under the hood of an enveloping cloak.

“Janine?”

Janine pulls off the cloak and sets it around Molly’s shoulders, pulling the hood close over her head.

“Quickly, we don’t have much time.”

Janine leads Molly across the darkened yard and into one of the little servant’s houses. She pulls Molly down a corridor, and knocks on one of the closed doors, three knocks. The door flies open. 

“Oh, thank goodness,” It is Kate, eyes bright and smile wider than Molly has ever seen it before. “I was starting to worry you had been caught.”

“Molly!” 

Molly’s heart skips a beat as she recognises the familiar quavering tones of Mrs Hudson. She can barely turn before she is enveloped in a warm, lavender-scented hug. 

“Mrs Hudson!” she cries, and finds somehow that she is speaking through tears.

“Oh, my dear, it has been so long.”

“It _was_ you who sent me the scissors,” Molly says, pulling back.

“Of course,” says Mrs Hudson. “And Kate and Janine have been taking turns every night under that Tower to help you once you got down.”

Molly feels her throat close. “I...” she says. “I thought I was alone.”

“Never,” Mrs Hudson declares hotly. “Not while I have breath in my body.”

“Nor I,” says Janine. 

“Nor I,” echoes Kate.

The sound of a throat clearing sounds from the corner of the room, and someone steps forward out of the shadows – Mary, dressed in fustian men’s clothes, blonde hair gleaming in the low light.

“Your Highness,” she greets Molly guardedly.

“ _You_ ,” Molly gasps, and reaches to her side for a sword that unfortunately isn’t there.

“Mary has been a great help to us these last few days. Bringing you the scissors and making certain you knew about the watchman.” Janine says quickly.

“You burned my rope,” says Molly.

Mary shrugs. “I couldn’t have them thinking I was on your side, could I?”

“The fact you kidnapped me would rather suggest that you _aren’t_ on my side,” Molly says.

“And helping with your rescue would suggest that I’ve changed my mind,” Mary replies. “We don’t have time for this – Mrs Hudson?”

“Yes, dear… You go and get ready. Molly, if I could have a quick word in private?”

Mrs Hudson pulls Molly off into a corner as the other women leave.

“I can’t believe…”

“Molly, don’t worry about Mary, just now. I have something very important to give you.” Mrs Hudson reaches into the bosom of her dress and pulls out a small velveteen bag. “Here,” she says, pressing it into Molly’s hands. “Your mother gave me this before she died, to keep for you. I could never give it to you before because, well, you know… walls had ears in that place. I want you to take it and show it to Lord Mycroft. He’ll understand. But – and this is very important – don’t you or anyone else touch it without gloves.”

“Gloves,” Molly repeats. 

“Exactly,” Mrs Hudson says, and kisses the top of her forehead. “Oh, my dear, it is good to see you again. But you must go, right away. Come along.”

Mrs Hudson leads Molly out of the back of the house to where Mary stands, holding the bridle of a horse.

“You’re riding with me.”

Molly hesitates. “For the goddesses’ sake,” Mary snaps. “I’m not going to kidnap you again.”

“Why did you in the first place, then?” Molly asks.

“Because Magnussen offered me and my women a pardon,” replies Mary. “Many of them have not seen their home, their children, their brothers and sisters for years because of the price he has put on their head.”

“Perhaps they shouldn’t have broken the law in the first place,” Molly snaps.

Mary’s lips purse. “Many of the women who came to me had done no wrong – they were fleeing cruel husbands, forced marriages, ill treatment from masters and mistresses…. Since your mother died, there has been little protection for poor women in Hoop. We did only what we had to do to keep ourselves.” She pauses. “ You want to know if you can trust me, if you can rely on my loyalty. The answer is, that you can’t. My only loyalty is to my women. Do well by them, and you’ll have my help.”

Molly’s mouth curls up at one corner.

“What?” Mary asks.

“Nothing,” she says. “For a moment, you reminded me of someone. Help me mount.”

Mary helps Molly onto the horse and then mounts behind her, taking the reins. 

“Where are we going?”

Mary flicks the reins and the horse’s hooves clatter on cobblestones.

“To find Lord Mycroft’s army,” Mary says.

 

The castle gates are unmanned – no doubt at the arrangement of Mrs Hudson and her maids, and Mary and Molly make quick progress, riding hard away from the castle and through the forest. Mary seems to know where she is going, so Molly focuses on making sure to keep her seat (Mary’s horse is a considerably faster ride than Billy). She can’t help feeling conscious of the overwhelming lightness of her head, the lack of a braid to wind around her. The wind tugs at her hair, pulling it out of what remains of the plait and leaving it to flap around her shoulders. She feels odd, unanchored – but also strangely free.

After a couple of hours, Mary pulls on the reins, slowing the horse to a gentle canter and begins peering through the trees as if expecting to see something. Sure enough...

“Who goes there?” A familiar voice rings through the trees. 

“Lestrade!” Molly calls out gladly.

“Your… Your Highness?” Lestrade steps out from behind a tree, holding his sword, his mouth hanging a little open. “Is it really you?”

“Don’t you recognise me without all my hair?” Molly smiles, and swings down from her horse to approach him.

“I am so glad… and so sorry,” Lestrade falls down on a knee and bends his head. “Your Highness I never should have left you…”

“You did only what I ordered you to do.” Molly touches his shoulder. “We were both deceived. Please stand, my dear friend.”

Lestrade frowns, slowly climbing to his feet while staring behind Molly at Mary, who is quietly tending to their horse.

“Isn’t that…”

“Yes,” Molly confirms. “But do not worry, she is not our enemy now – she helped me escape.”

“How—”

“I’ll explain,” Molly says. “But first I think I ought to see Lord Mycroft.”

Lestrade bows. “Follow me, Your Highness.”

Lestrade leads them through the trees and into a vast field – Molly takes in a breath. The field is full of more people than she has ever seen in her life before, dotted with tents, and men in armour standing around, tending to fires, talking and laughing. Certainly, Lord Mycroft had managed to put together quite an impressive force.

Lestrade takes them to a tent in the very centre, larger and more richly decorated than any other. He speaks to the guard at the entrance, and then they go inside.

“My Lord.”

Lord Mycroft, looking paler and thinner than when Molly had seen him last, looks up from a sheaf of papers. His eyes seem to burn as he stares at the party before him and his mouth falls open.

“Princess!” Beside Mycroft, Molly notes Sir Sherlock, springing to his feet and jumping over the desk they were seated at. Before she can say a word he has gathered her in a tight and completely unexpected hug. 

He then looks down at her, frowning. “Rope calluses on your palm… three different kinds of pollen in your hair, no, four… horsehair… clearly, Your Highness, you have had quite an adventure.”

“And I look forward to telling you all about it,” Molly smiles up at him. “But I confess I would rather like a bath first.”

“Of course,” Lord Mycroft says. “Sherlock, send Lady Donovan to prepare one. Your Highness…” He approaches her. “It gives me more pleasure than I can say to find you safe and well.”

“And I you,” declares Molly, feeling a peculiar flutter of pleasure in her chest to see him looking at her with such apparently sincere happiness. “Magnussen told me he has sent an army after you.” 

“He did,” says Lord Mycroft. “We met them in battle yesterday. Rather a resounding success for our forces, as it happens – we had them retreating back over their lines and we’re rather confident we can push them back to the Castle itself.”

“I was afraid they would find you unprepared.”

“That very rarely happens to a Holmes, Your Highness.”

“I suppose not,” Molly says. “Even so, I am very glad to see it.”

“Your Highness.” Lord Mycroft suddenly looks uncharacteristically discomfited. “I must apologise… I never dreamed Morstanites would venture so far into Holmes territory. I failed you.”

“No,” Molly says quickly. “Please, Lord Mycroft – it was my fault. I should have been more wary. I fear it was I who failed you.”

Lord Mycroft is about to answer when Mary coughs quietly behind them. “Um, will you see to this lady’s comfort also?” Molly turns to her. “She aided my escape.”

Lord Mycroft gives Mary rather a suspicious look but bows all the same.

“Allow me to escort you to Lady Donovan’s tent,” he says to Molly. “She will doubtless be able to provide all the comforts you desire after your long ordeal.”

 

Molly has two baths in the end, one after the other – the first turned quite black with the accumulated mud, dust and dirt of her kidnapping and her long sojourn in the Tower. Only after the second bath does she feel really clean again. Looking in the mirror, she touches her new, shortened hair, miraculously drying already, and runs her fingers through it. It makes her look different, she thinks, her face less strained somehow. It’s odd having it falling freely around her face but she likes it – it feels light, soft.

Mary has been taken to lodgings elsewhere, and so it is just Lady Donovan with her, chattering away and filling her in on all that has occurred during her absence. 

“I’ve never seen Lord Mycroft so distressed,” says Lady Donovan. “He went out searching for you himself, in the woods, and in the rain if you can imagine! And came back looking so pale and wild-eyed! We all were certain he would fall ill. Even Sir Sherlock was upset, if you can believe it. I never thought he had it in him.”

“I’m sorry to have caused so much distress.” 

“We’re only glad to have you back,” Lady Donovan says, with a warm smile. “And now we can send that horrible man packing.”

“I certainly hope so,” Molly replies.

 

Molly meets Lord Mycroft and Sir Sherlock for dinner in their tent – it’s a long and surprisingly sumptuous meal for a war camp. Molly eats with relish and recounts all that has happened to her to the two men, who listen with great interest. When Molly explains how she scaled down the Tower using the device Sir Sherlock had fashioned he gets rather excited and asks her all sorts of questions about angles and the oxidation of the metal that Molly doesn’t know the answer to.

“You see, it was _my_ invention that saved her, brother,” Sherlock declares smugly.

“And my hair,” Molly points out. “If you had cut it off as you threatened I would never have made it.”

“Sherlock, did you threaten to cut off her hair?” Mycroft says. “That is most ungentlemanly.”

Sir Sherlock pouts.

When Molly reaches the end of the story, she hesitates a little and then asks. “Do either of you have a pair of gloves?”

Sherlock goes to fetch his – they are rather large for Molly, but she puts them on before taking the little velvet bag Mrs Hudson had given her out of her pocket and opening it. Into her leather clad hand falls a ring, set with a large stone that burns with a peculiar green fire. She holds it up to the light.

“She said you would know what it was,” she says to Lord Mycroft.

He frowns deeply. “I believe I do… may I?” 

Molly hands him a glove and he pulls it on before taking the ring between his thumb and his forefinger.

“Perhaps you have heard of the old legend,” he says. “That a traitor may not touch the hand of the true Monarch of Hoop, or he will fall down dead.”

“No.”

“Yes,” answers Sir Sherlock at the same time. He glances at Molly. “Really, we need to give you the opportunity to read more widely.”

“Only a few knew the truth behind the legend,” explains Lord Mycroft. “Many centuries ago, the Queen of Hoop was given a gift from a most gifted jewel smith who was skilled in the art – now lost to the world – of fashioning gems which contained a most specific form of poison. One which would prove fatal to anyone who touched it – except those of the bloodline of the owner, who would be immune.”

“If I am correct, this ring would be the death of anyone who tried to wear it today – except you, Your Highness.”

“We could use this,” Sir Sherlock says, his pale face suddenly flushed with excitement. 

“It’s dangerous,” says Lord Mycroft. “We cannot be certain the Queen will be immune to the poison.”

“But if she is… if we could only get Magnussen to touch her hand, he would be gone and it would be clear even to his own supporters, that he was a traitor. We could win the war without spilling another drop of our men’s blood.”

“And risk losing our Queen,” Lord Mycroft snaps.

“I’ll do it,” Molly says.

“But—” Lord Mycroft protests, his eyes dark with worry. “Your Highness…”

“Make the preparations,” Molly cuts him short, drawing herself upright. “That is an order, Lord Mycroft.”

“Your Highness.”

 

Lady Donovan helps Molly dress with a great deal of care. “We want everyone watching to be bowled over by how regal you look,” she says. “Like a Queen from one of the legends.”

In the end she settles upon a gown of pure white silk, trimmed with ermine and a single gold coronet set atop her head. Molly’s hair is loose, floating around her shoulders as she rides slowly to the head of the assembled army on the back of a royally turned-out Billy whose coat shines from the brushing John has given it. 

Across the field she can see the light glinting off the armour of Magnussen’s troops. Supposedly the man himself is there, preparing for their meeting, just as she is.

“Now is the moment of truth,” Sir Sherlock states, handing Molly the little velvet bag.

“There is still time to change your mind.” Lord Mycroft’s voice is low with worry.

Molly ignores him, shedding her gloves and pulling the ring from the bag. She slides it on slowly – at first she feels nothing, only its heaviness, pressing against her finger. Then, a peculiar burning sensation begins at the place where it touches her finger and sweeps through her body. She gasps.

“Your Highness.” Lord Mycroft is by her side almost immediately. “Are you all right?” 

“Yes,” Molly assures him. “Only, it’s rather a strange feeling.”

She straightens herself in her saddle. “I’m ready. Lord Mycroft, please come with me.”

 

She rides across the field, Lord Mycroft close to her side. From the opposite direction rides Magnussen with a small contingent of his men.

They meet in the centre and all of them dismount.

“Charles Augustus Magnussen,” Molly speaks, in carrying tones. “I ask you to call an end to this war and give me my throne – as you know is my true birthright.”

“Little Molly,” Magnussen replies, slowly shaking his head and smiling at her. “It breaks my heart to see this – you know I watched you grow up? Not often of course, but sometimes I would take a little peek in at your window and what a good, pretty little girl you always were. It grieves me to see you take up with this rebellion.”

“You will not submit?” Molly asks him.

Magnussen’s shark-like smile intensifies. “Certainly not.”

Molly shakes her head. “Then our armies will go to war,” she says. “But before the battle commences – I once thought of you as my father. I hope you will take my hand, in one last act of friendship, and wish with me that the true Monarch of this land will succeed.”

Molly holds out her hand. Magnussen hesitates. Perhaps he has seen the flash of the ring on her finger.

“What is the matter?” Lord Mycroft enquires, from behind her, in his mildest tones. He turns towards the watching army behind them. “Are you, for some reason, afraid to touch the hand of the true Queen of Hoop?”

Molly sees one of Magnussen’s advisors dip his head, whispering in the ear of another.

A muscle twitches in the corner of Magnussen’s jaw.

“Of course not,” he says, and steps forward, hand held out. Molly takes it firmly and squeezes, making sure the stone of the ring brushes against the back of his hand.

It happens very quickly – Magnussen jerks back, his eyes bulging. His face twists and becomes a rictus of pain. Foam begins to drizzle out of the corner of his mouth, soon turning red with blood. He collapses.

Molly waits until the corpse has stopped twitching and then steps forward.

“Would any other man like to question my right to rule this land?” she asks. “If so, I invite them to step forward and shake my hand.”

None of Magnussen’s army moves an inch for a moment… the entire field seems frozen, staring at Magnussen’s unmoving body. 

Then: “Three cheers for the Queen!” someone from Magnussen’s line calls out, and before long, both armies are cheering and calling Molly’s name.

 

The Great Hall of Hoop throngs with people, fine ladies dressed in shimmering silks and gossamer veils, nobles with their furs and gold chains…. And a few who are neither.

“Come forward, John Watson,” Molly calls, with a smile. Out of the throng of people gathered at the back John steps forward, face very serious, to kneels before her.

It was Lord Mycroft who had pointed out to Molly that upon Magnussen’s death, the rather vast lands he’d owned had reverted to the Crown. Which meant, of course, that Molly was at liberty to bestow them, along with a title, to whomever she pleased. 

She has already awarded estates to Kate and Janine in gratitude for their help in her escape and settled an endowment on the Morstanites, on the condition that they set up a refuge and school for women in need of protection. Mrs Hudson has refused a title, but asked for a place in court by Molly’s side which Molly readily assented to.

Now Molly raises the ceremonial sword high in the air and lowers it to gently to touch John on both shoulders.

“Arise, Sir John of Appledore,” she says. 

The applause is tumultuous, and John, grinning, bends his head and presses a kiss on the back of her outstretched hand before turning to step back into the crowd.

Music pipes up from the orchestra, led by Sir Sherlock himself, and people move towards the dance floor. Molly watches, smiling, as John threads his way through the swirling masses to end up close to the small platform on which the orchestra sits. She knows exactly who he is looking for – the grin Sherlock sends his friend over the swiftly moving bow of his violin is positively blinding

“They are lovers, are they not?” a voice speaks close to Molly’s ear. Molly turns sharply to Kate (or to give her what is now her proper title, Lady Catherine of Blackwell) watching the pair with a curiously closed expression.

“Why on earth would you think that?” Molly asks, her tone sharp with anxiety

“I’d say it’s obvious, Your Highness. The way they look at each other….Also, I saw them embracing in the stables...” Kate’s eyes have a slightly wicked gleam.

Molly blanches, and lowers her voice. “You mustn’t say such things… they could be in a great deal of trouble…”

“What trouble? Aren’t they your friends? You are Queen now,” Kate says, in a slightly harder tone than Molly was used to hearing from her.

“Even a Queen must be seen to honour the law,” Molly says half-heartedly.

Kate sniffs, disparagingly. “Laws can be changed.”

“I have thought of it,” says Molly. “But even a Queen requires her people’s goodwill to make such changes.”

“I don’t think you realise the power you hold right now, my Queen. People over the land are talking of how you arrived dressed in white like a goddess from the legends and struck down the traitor with a single touch. I think if you decreed the sky was green they would take it as if it were fresh from the lips of a deity just now.”

Molly looks at Kate, and realises her eyes are no longer on John and Sherlock, but have wandered to the Adler table, where the Lady Irene is seated with her escort. The noble lady looks terribly striking in a sky-blue gown, and terribly bored with the attentions from the men flitting around her like flies buzzing around a pot of honey. Her eyes meet Kate’s across the room, and her expression warms just slightly.

Molly reaches over to squeeze Kate’s hand in sympathy. “I think carefully on what you say,” she promises.

The revelry continues late into the night, and Molly finds herself much in demand, constantly accosted by this noble or that one, wishing to declare their undying allegiance and confide how they had always despised Magnussen and simply been waiting for their chance to prove their loyalty to her. As pleasant as it is to meet so many of her new subjects, Molly starts to weary of it after a while. As she is beginning to find more and more frequently in these days, there is only one person that she truly wishes to speak to.

“Lord Mycroft,” she finds him at last in the corner of the ballroom, watching the proceedings with a thin smile from behind a goblet of watered-down wine.

Instantly, he drops into a deep bow. “Your Highness, this is your night. You should be dancing.”

“If you’d like,” Molly offers her hand to him. For a brief moment, a surprised expression flashes over his features – then he takes her hand with a short graceful bow. For a moment Molly wonders if he will kiss it, and finds her breath catches rather in her throat at the thought, but he does not.

“I should warn you,” she tells him as he leads her over towards the dance floor. “I’ve never actually taken lessons.” As if to prove her point, she treads on his foot almost straightaway.

The man never so much as winces. “An omission in my plans for your education,” he says, his hands gently guiding her to correct her stance. “I apologise.”

“Learning to fight was of more use then,” Molly says.

“I very much hope,” says Lord Mycroft. “That in the future it may prove otherwise.”

The orchestra strikes up a new tune with a less intricate rhythm. Molly glances at the orchestra and sees Sherlock's eyes on her - no doubt the change in tune was no accident, Molly realises, and it a little touched by the kind attention. Lord Mycroft smiles too. “This is a simple dance – all you need to do is step back when I step forward.”

Molly does as he says and finds that along with his courteous but firmly guiding grip it is easy enough to fall into step with him,

“I was thinking,” Molly says, after a moment. “I should like to make some sort of present to all my subjects, to celebrate my victory. I believe you said there was money in the treasury?”

“Magnussen certainly knew how to hoard his wealth, your coffers are overflowing.” As if to underscore the point he twirls her around and she gasps and clasps his hand a little tighter.

“I thought,” she manages. “Perhaps I could give a gold piece to everyone in the land? From what Mary has told me I’m sure that would bring relief to many of my people.”

Lord Mycroft’s brow wrinkles in thought, “If I might make a suggestion,” he says. “If you give out a great deal of gold all at once, you run the risk of lowering its value. It might be better to give out something of more practical use… the granaries are also full to bursting. I would advise that you keep back some surplus, in case of famine, you could have a sack of grain delivered to every household. It would ensure a winter where no one starved.”

“I like that idea,” Molly exclaims, excited. “You’re right, of course, Lord Mycroft. Thank you." Moll finds herself blushing a little at the warmth of the smile Mycroft gives her - one that most definitely reaches his eyes. "There is another matter I wish to speak to you on.” She relays her conversation with Kate and its conclusion.

Mycroft’s lips are a tight line by the time she reaches the end. “Again I’m grateful to you on my brother’s behalf,” he says. “And I realise the choice is yours. But… Your Highness, you’re treading on dangerous grounds.”

“It is a risk I think it’s worth our while to take, I think,” Molly decides. “People may be stupid, like you told me, but it’s easy to be stupid when you never have never been exposed to new ideas, and Magnussen never allowed any information but his own to circulate. For our people it must have been like being trapped in a room with only twenty books to read.” 

As ever, Lord Mycroft does not need the connection in ideas to be explained to him.

“I don’t believe I ever called you stupid.”

“Well, you didn’t meet me right after I came out of the Tower. I think your brother thought me quite an idiot.”

“He has never expressed such a thought.” Lord Mycroft says, and there is quite a wonderfully tender shine to his eyes as he looks down at her, and Molly can see quite clearly in the bright light of the dancefloor, the smile curling at the corner of his mouth. It is somewhat addictive, Molly thinks, to have been the cause of it and that it what finally decides her to speak the one other thought that has been pressing on her mind.

“I was also thinking, I do not wish to marry - but I might take a lover.” 

Lord Mycroft’s step falters, very briefly. “Oh?”

“It is not improper,” Molly says. “Many of the ancient Queens had consorts.”

“Indeed.” Lord Mycroft appears to have found his equilibrium again in exchange for a lessening of his grip on her her waist. “Most natural. I am sure a young man of good family can be found. If I may be so bold, I think you should avoid anyone with excessive political ambition.”

“Actually,” Molly says, and deliberately tightens her fingers on his hand and nudges her waist back into his embrace. “I already had someone in mind, Lord Mycroft, and was hoping you’d approve of my choice – though I’m afraid he does, most definitely, have political ambitions. But he has also been one of the wisest and most constant advisors during these last strange weeks and is one of the truest servants of Hoop that I know.”

Lord Mycroft turns his head to look down at her, his dark blue eyes widening in understanding, the flush dawning on his cheeks again and this time she can’t help but blush as well.

“That is,” she says, staring up at him. “I mean, only if you think you would like to, of course. I realise…” Her voice falters and draws to a most unroyal halt. 

Lord Mycroft’s hand tightens on her waist, pulling her just a fraction closer. His eyes lock with hers and, much as she loves her subjects, that instant she wishes they were all gone.

“My Queen,” he says, his tone reverent. And then a smile warms those dark blue eyes. “Molly. I can think of no greater happiness.”


End file.
